Pies and Potions (19 page)

Chapter Thirty

“Thanks. I really appreciate you giving me a peek inside. I’ve heard so much about the museum.” I gave my best attempt at a smile, but his negative expression didn’t budge. “Pardon me for asking and maybe it’s none of my business, but I’ve never heard exactly what type of magic you perform.”

“You certainly have a lot of questions.”

Actually, I didn’t think it was that many. And why wouldn’t another magic practitioner want to share the details of their craft?

“I attach magic to the items in my store. If someone needs a little magic, I can place a spell on the item, but it can never be removed. That’s how I ended up with all of the items in the museum.” He gestured to the adjacent door leading to the museum. “If the person decides they no longer want the item, I have to take it back.”

He eased off the stool and ambled over to the door with a large ring of keys. After flipping through several keys, he pushed on the door and eased it open. I stepped into the space
and stared at the jam-packed walls and tables. When I thought of museums, I always pictured neat and orderly. This was far from it. The space was full of a mishmash of items and nothing appeared to be labeled. The airless room was musty and shadows lurked in the corners. It was no wonder I had never been in there. It was more of a junk room. Spiderwebs covered the cracks and corners of the room.

I wandered around the room taking in all the items. What spells were attached to the objects? I had no idea so many people had performed the magic incorrectly. The Organization had me thinking I was the only screw-up, but obviously, that wasn’t the case.

I moved over to a table that looked like it might cave from the weight of objects resting on top. Something had beckoned me to the table. The magic? I felt a connection to an object. An overwhelming sensation pulled at me and I had to find the object creating this force. A pair of shiny scissors glinted in the light and called out to me. That was the item.

“I heard that the murder weapon came from your kitchen?”

The item flew from my hands and I spun around, clutching my chest. Okay, sneaking up on me like that was incredibly creepy. I needed a personal space alarm that warned people to stand at least two feet away.

“Oh, did I scare you? So sorry.” He stood only inches away from me. Way too close.

“Um. I was just looking around.”

“That item was brought in here by your investigator.” He pointed at the scissors I’d just held.

“These are hair-cutting shears.”

He nodded. “Yes, Tom Owenton brought those to me about five years ago. He was with my uncle at the time. I think it was the first object he brought here.”

“What’s the story with them?”

“That’s interesting, that one…” He wiped his mouth with his hand, but didn’t continue with the story.
Perspiration beaded on his forehead.

After an awkward pause with him staring at me, I finally asked, “So, do you know the story on every item in this place?” I gestured toward the room’s contents with a tilt of my head.

“No.” He shook his head. “Only the stories that stand out to me.”

I picked up the shears. “So why does the story about these stand out to you?”

He shrugged. “Something about magical powers being taken away. I can’t recall who the person was who had their powers taken away though.”

Something told me he wasn’t telling me the whole story. I’d have to ask Tom about it. And why hadn’t he mentioned the items before? Why had I been drawn to the shears?

“So the person was a hair stylist?” I guessed you could assume that, but I didn’t know.

He paused and eyed me up and down. “I have records of the spells attached to each item. I bet you’d love to know about that, wouldn’t you?” A creepy sliver of a grin spread across his face.

“Yeah. I mean, that would be wonderful.” Why hadn’t he mentioned this to begin with?

He trailed to the back of the room and I forced my feet to move forward and follow him. Once he reached a desk at the back of the room, he pulled the drawer open and removed a large leather-bound book. How in the world would he organize all of these items? How did he know where to look in the book?

He flipped open the cover and leafed halfway through the page as if he knew exactly where he was headed. I wouldn’t even ask about this organizational system. It would probably just give me a headache.

After a few seconds of scanning the page with his index finger, he said, “Uh-huh, that spell is for ill will.” He tapped the page with his finger. “It’s very negative and apparently the spell was very strong. I can’t believe someone would do something like that, can you?” he asked, as his eyes narrowed and that creepy smile returned.

“No… I can’t. Do you have a name of the owner?”

He stared for a beat, then said, “I’m sorry. I can’t give out that information.”

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? This was the strangest “museum” in the history of museums. I’d find out who was the owner was one way or the other. The longer I stayed there, the more creeped out I felt. It was time for me to skedaddle.

I walked backward as Mr. Fisher walked toward me. “Um. Thanks again for the plate. I held up my bag. “And thanks for showing me the museum.” I turned and hurried toward the door, but could feel him following closely. Again with the personal space. I reached the door and yanked it open. Once outside, I turned around and looked back at the shop. Mr. Fisher stood at the door, staring at me with his beady little eyes. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, I headed back down the sidewalk, aimlessly wandering through town hoping a clue would crash down on me. Like a brick hitting me over the head—a subtle clue probably wouldn’t work for me.

When I spotted the sign dangling above the next shop, I stopped in my tracks.
Shear Magic. The beauty salon had recently opened in Mystic Hollow. And I had to say, I was kind of excited, although I hadn’t had a chance to make an appointment yet. The thought of a magical haircut wasn’t a bad one. As long as it didn’t come from Mr. Hanley at the barbershop. Something told me I wouldn’t look good with a buzz cut. My head was probably a funny shape.

The sign above the door had sparkles shooting up from the blades. Residents of Mystic Hollow would know the sign indicated real magic, but tourists would think it was just whimsical. The smell of chemicals and hairspray hit me as I stepped into the shop. The space was modern with shades of black, maroon, and gray. A couple stylists were busy with customers, but they all turned to look at me.

“Marissa will be right with you,” the one with pink hair said as she held up her index finger indicating one minute.

I wondered what I’d look like with pink hair? No. It wouldn’t work on me. I needed to stick with my cola color. It suited me, or at least I thought it did.

The woman with the sleek brown hair approached. “Elly Blair, right? You run Mystic Café?” She smiled broadly showing off her bright white teeth.

I’d seen Marissa once. Mary Jane had a night class with her and she’d introduced us one day at the annual Mystic Hollow Spring Festival. “Yes. You have a nice salon,” I said looking around.

“
Thanks.” She paused. “Did you need to make an appointment?”

“Well…” I touched my hair, feeling somewhat self-conscious that I hadn’t been to a stylist in way too long. But who had time with magic, burgers, and pies? “I do want to make an appointment, but that’s not why I’m here today.”

She raised a brow. “What can I help you with?” She shifted from one foot to the other as she twisted her hands. “Is this about the murder?”

My eyes widened. “Actually, yes. I’m just doing a little bit of investigating myself. As you know from the meeting, they want to shut down Mystic Hollow.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s the last thing I need. I just started this business and put all of my money into it. It made me so angry when I heard about the plans to shut down Mystic Hollow. I don’t think we should let them get away with it
.”
Her face reddened and she clenched her fists.

I understood her frustration. Mystic Café was my livelihood too. “That’s why I’m here. Just checking back in to see if you’d remembered anything since the meeting?”

“Nope. Not a thing.” She paused, then said, “Do you wonder about that investigator though? It seems as if he had issues with the Organization. Maybe he got rid of Mr. Wibble?”

I tried to hide my feelings about the subject. “I don’t think so.”

I gave one last glance at the other hair stylists in the salon. Why was I so concerned about the shears from the museum? “Where did all of your stylists work before they started here?” I asked.

“Oh, most of them are new, except for Anna.” She gestured toward the woman in the back. “But I can assure you they’re all great stylists.”

My next question would be a long shot. “Do you happen to know of anyone who may have given magical haircuts in the past? About five years ago.”

She looked over her shoulder anxiously, then shook her head. “No, I can’t think of anyone. I have to get back to my customers, but do make an appointment soon.” She looked at my hair and smiled.

“Yeah sure, thanks for talking with me. If they don’t shut down Mystic Hollow I’ll come in for a visit.”

One more shop might produce a lead in the shears mystery. I headed in the direction of the barbershop. Mr. Hanley had a pair of magical scissors, too. Why I held an overwhelming need to pursue the mystery surrounding the shears, I had no idea. There had been something magical pulling me to them.

The barbershop pole beckoned me and the
Open
sign blinked in the window. I swallowed the lump in my throat and moved forward through the door. The usual same men sat around, chatting, but as usual all talk ceased when I walked through the door. They always gawked when a woman stepped into the barbershop. I should have freaked them out and asked for a crew cut, but then I’d be afraid I’d actually get one. I’d talked to Mr. Hanley a few times since my first visit when I’d asked him about the last investigation. He wasn’t nearly as cranky as I’d first thought.

“Hey there, Elly. What can I do for you? Did you come in for a cut?” Mr. Hanley didn’t have a hair on his head. Some people said that was what made him give the best haircuts around. He looked like a cleaned-up version of a mountain man, except hairless on the top of his head and a neatly trimmed dark beard sprinkled with grey. He wore the usual plaid button-down shirt with brown pants.

He always asked if I wanted a haircut. “Nope, not this time.” I stayed close to the door and motioned for him to come over. “Do you have a second?”