Witching You Were Here (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 3) (3 page)

Aunt Marnie’s marriage was the next to go. My Uncle Warren was a loser from the beginning, if you listened to my Aunt Tillie, that is. He was a local construction worker that had whistled at Aunt Marnie when she was crossing the street one day. They were married two months later.

The marriage wasn’t exactly what I would call happy. Uncle Warren was a patient man, but Marnie was a master at trying the patience of men. And women.
And small animals, quite frankly. I don’t remember a lot about the time they spent together, but what I do remember was fraught with some really loud fights.

When they divorced, Uncle Warren stayed in the area for a few years – seeing Clove on alternating weekends. He left the state for Minnesota when she was four. He still sent regular cards and gifts, but he didn’t visit very often. He had remarried two more times – and divorced two more times – since his marriage to Marnie imploded.

And my father? He had a Type A personality that rivaled my mother’s Type A personality. They just weren’t a good fit. He had moved down state to the Grand Rapids area after the divorce.

We talked to each other on the phone every couple of weeks and met each other for neutral visitations – meaning far away from the Winchester witches – every couple of months.

Basically, the Winchester women are hard to live with – and Aunt Tillie was practically impossible. Ironically, she was the only Winchester woman – to my knowledge, at least – that had kept a husband until he died. By all accounts, my great-uncle, Calvin, had been some sort of saint. Apparently he had been the only person that could ever exert any control over Aunt Tillie – and that was, reportedly, a pretty limited control. It was more like he doted on her and she let him.

“You can’t say that Aunt Tillie didn’t have something to do with the divorces,” Thistle said.

“I think Aunt Tillie is a pain in the ass to deal with, but I think all those marriages would have imploded on their own,” I answered.

“My dad sent me a card for Halloween,” Clove repeated.

“Yeah, we heard you the first time,” Thistle said angrily.

“Don’t be mean to her,” I said. “That’s something a bully would do.”

Thistle reached over and pinched me. Hard.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“I’m a bully. I don’t need a reason.”

Thankfully, things didn’t have a chance to devolve much further. We were interrupted from what was sure to be a righteous hair-pulling fight by the knock at the front door.

“It’s probably the handyman,” Clove said finally.

“Well, he was sent here for you,” I said. “You should probably get the door.”

“Oh, right,” Clove jumped to her feet. Realizing we had tricked her into answering the door, she swung back on us. “I really am the doormat.”

Clove’s self-realization didn’t last long. Once the door swung open her attention was entirely taken over by the hunk – no, I can’t think of a better word – on the other side of the door.

Trevor Murray was six feet of well-muscled perfection. He had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and just enough stubble to make him sexy and not disheveled. One look at his narrow hips – and the denim that snugly fit his muscular rear end – and I knew that Clove was actually happy with one of her mother’s set-ups.

“I’m Trevor Murray,” the man at the door introduced himself. I could tell he felt uncomfortable with the silence that had encompassed the room when the door opened.

“I’m Clove Winchester,” Clove introduced herself coyly.

“Nice to meet you.”

Thistle and I waited expectantly, but Clove didn’t acknowledge our presence in the room. “I’m Bay and this is Thistle.”

Clove shot me a dirty look and I took an involuntary step back.

“And we’re going to work,” Thistle supplied quickly, grabbing my arm. “I’ll ride with Bay. Why don’t you show Trevor around and come to work whenever you feel like it?”

Clove shot a shy smile at Trevor. “It’s not a big place, but I’ll show you were the attic entrances are.”

“That’s great,” Trevor said, smiling down at her. Oh, man, he had dimples. Clove was a goner. “This is a great place.”

“Oh, yeah, we’ve done a lot with it since we moved in,” Clove said, ignoring Thistle and I. “I did most of the decorating.”

“We’ll just go,” Thistle laughed, slipping out the door behind Trevor.

Once we got out to the car, I turned to her. “How long until she realizes we’re gone?”

“Let’s just say I doubt I’ll see her at the store today.”

I dropped Thistle off at Hypnotic, the magic store she co-owned with Clove on Main Street, and then headed towards The Whistler’s office. Since the paper was only a weekly, there were only a handful of full-time employees. Basically there was me, the editor, a paginator that worked nights, an advertising representative and the owner, Brian Kelly.

Brian Kelly’s grandfather, William, had actually hired me when I returned to Hemlock Cove from Detroit a few years ago. When he passed away a few months back, William had given the newspaper to his grandson with the stipulation that he
keep me on as editor.

Brian Kelly wasn’t a bad guy. He was a narcissistic guy. He was a fake guy. He was an obnoxiously flirty guy. He just wasn’t a bad guy. He kept sniffing around looking for an in with me – even though I had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t my type. That was annoying, but I felt it was pretty harmless – for now, at least.

When I got to my office, I sat down at my desk and started going through the weekly budget. If there was a lack of news in Hemlock Cove on a normal week, then the winter months were decidedly skimpy. I frowned when I realized that this week’s top story was the remodel of Mrs. Gunderson’s bakery.

“He’s up to something.”

I looked up to see the source of the voice, and was not surprised to find Edith – The Whistler’s resident ghost. Edith had died almost fifty years before. She had taken a nosedive into her evening dinner – one I suspected was poisoned – and she’d been haunting the halls of The Whistler ever since.

Oh, yeah, I can see ghosts. That’s kind of my witchy super power – if you want to call it that. Sometimes it is a helpful gift. Other times it is a big pain – like when I was a kid and people thought I was walking around talking to myself. My mom always lied to people that asked and said I had an imaginary friend – which made the town think I was even weirder than I actually was.

“Who’s up to something?” I asked wearily, turning my attention back to my laptop. Edith was always coming up with some sort of nefarious conspiracy. Last week she had been convinced that Mrs. White, the local pewter unicorn peddler, was really selling cocaine. In reality, she had just spilled baby powder on her bathroom floor. As a ghost, Edith had access to anywhere in Hemlock Cove she wanted to go. She usually stayed close to the paper, but when she was bored she made a few excursions into town. Since she had died so long ago, though, she didn’t know many people in town anymore. Unfortunately, Aunt Tillie was one of them. And, since the two of them had not gotten along in life, Edith was now taking great joy in haunting Aunt Tillie in death.

Aunt Tillie wasn’t taking it well. You can imagine, I’m sure.

“Brian,” Edith hissed. “He’s up to something.”

“What do you think he’s up to? You don’t think he’s a spy again, do you?”

A few days ago, after catching a rerun of
Alias
on the newspaper’s small television, Edith had been convinced Brian was working for a covert terrorist organization bent on building a dirty bomb right here in Hemlock Cove. It had taken me two hours to talk her off that metaphorical cliff.

“No, I realized that setting off a dirty bomb in Hemlock Cove doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Edith said. “You were right on that front. That doesn’t mean he’s not evil, though.”

“What does William think?”

“I haven’t seen William in weeks. I think he moved on.”

That was news to me. Last time I had seen William, he had been walking through the downtown with the son he had never claimed in his life. They were getting to know each other in death. Maybe they had moved on together.

“That’s why you’re so keyed up lately,” I said, realization dawning on me. “You’re bored without anyone to hang around with.”

“I am not bored . . . and he is up to something.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said. The truth is, since Edith is a ghost, she can haunt me whenever she wants. Sometimes it’s just easier to listen to her than to try and get rid of her.

“He’s been having secret phone calls,” Edith said.

“With who?”

“I don’t know; I can’t follow the phone line through to the other end.”

“You tried?” Explaining technology to Edith had proved to be an impossible feat.

“Once. It doesn’t work. There’s nothing to follow. It’s like magic.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that technology wasn’t magic. Now talking to a ghost? That was magic. “So, what was he saying?”

“He was saying that he would make sure you didn’t find out about the meeting.”

Well, that was interesting. “What meeting?”

“I don’t know,” Edith shrugged.

“But he specifically said to make sure that I didn’t find out?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Bay doesn’t know anything. I told you I would keep it a secret. I’m a businessman. I know how important this is.’”

“And you have no idea who he was talking to?” My distrust of Brian Kelly was rearing its ugly head again. Last month I had thought he was a suspect in the death of his own grandfather. As it turned out, I was wrong, but I was still suspicious of his motivations at times – even if I was constantly reminding myself that I had no proof he was up to no good
..

“I told you that I didn’t,” Edith said irritably. “I just know that he’s had a few phone calls where he mentions secret meetings somewhere on the outskirts of town.”

Hmmm. “Next time, why don’t you follow him when he leaves the office?” I suggested.

Edith cocked her head as she considered my request. “Okay, maybe I will. That might be fun.”

“Then report back to me and tell me who he is meeting with.”

“I’m not your slave,” Edith reminded me.

“I know that.”

“If I occasionally help you, it’s because I’m loyal and you’ve been nice to me,” Edith continued. Plus, I was one of the few people in town that could see her, so she didn’t have a lot of choice in whom she was going to interact with. I didn’t say that out loud, though. “I’m not your employee,” she reminded me.

“Fine, don’t follow him then,” I said. “I just thought you might want to get those investigative reporter juices flowing again.” In truth, Edith had been the local Ann Landers – giving out pithy advice to housewives and teenagers. The way she told it, though, she was Hemlock Cove’s version of Walter Cronkite. I was just baiting her, quite frankly. I had no doubt she would take the bait. She always did.

“No, I want to follow him,” Edith said hastily. “I just think you should ask me nicely.”

“Please follow Brian and find out what he’s up to, Edith,” I said, never looking up from my laptop.

“It would be my pleasure,” Edith said.

When I glanced back up, she was gone. I could only hope she was on the job. I really did want to know what Brian was up to.

After double-checking the budget, I reread the lead story one more time and then emailed it off to the
paginator. With the threat of a blizzard looming later in the week, I figured it would be wise to try to get the paper locked early this week.

I was shaken out of my menial task when my cell phone rang from inside the pocket of my coat. I rummaged around for it quickly, recognizing Chief Terry’s phone number on the caller ID when I pulled it out.

“What’s up, Chief? You missed homemade cinnamon rolls this morning, by the way. They were awesome.”

Chief Terry was a longtime family friend and he was a visitor for meals at the inn several times a week. The truth is
, Chief Terry was the subject of an ongoing competition between my mother and her sisters. They were all convinced they were going to be the one to land him. For his part, he seemed to bask in the attention. I wasn’t actually sure what would happen if one of my family members actually managed to nab him.  I had a feeling it wouldn’t be pretty. I think he knew that, too.

“I didn’t call about food,” Chief Terry said gruffly. His voice sounded far away, like he was outside and near the water.

“What’s going on?” Chief Terry may be the head of Hemlock Cove’s small police department, but he was also my best source.

“I think I just found something that could change your weekly edition,” he said. “Are you still looking for something to bump the Gunderson remodel off the front page?”

Was this a trick question? “Why, what do you have?”

“We’re hauling in an abandoned boat that was found out in the channel a few minutes ago,” he said. “If you hurry, you should be able to get some decent photos.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s being tugged in now,” he said. “It will be here in a few minutes.”