Witch at Heart: A Jinx Hamilton Witch Mystery Book 1 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) (3 page)

W
hen I stepped
out on the sidewalk in front of the shop at about 1 o’clock I discovered I had missed the better part of a glorious day digging through Aunt Fiona’s inventory. No wonder the cats were glued to the front windows upstairs. Although the summer tourist season hadn’t started yet, there were a fair number of people walking up and down Main Street. The grocery store sat at the far end of the block from the shop. I waved at Amity in the pottery studio as I walked by, and paused for a minute to look at the clothes in the window of Aggie’s Dress Emporium.

The bell on the door announced my arrival at George and Irma’s Grocery and Dry Goods. The place was exactly as I remembered, from the sagging, well-worn wood floors to the vintage tin ceiling overhead.

George was on a ladder getting a box down and Irma was behind the counter reading an “historical romance.” My mother reads the same kind of books. Think half-naked hunk with long hair on the cover and a plot set some place swashbuckling in another century. This guy appeared to be wearing a kilt, so my guess was Scotland.

“Oh, Jinx!” Irma cried, putting the book down and coming out from behind the counter to give me a big, motherly hug. She had to stand on tiptoe to accomplish the maneuver. Irma was stretching it to make five feet.

George, a grandfatherly bear of a man who towered over his wife, lumbered down the ladder and put his arms around both of us. I wasn’t expecting a group hug, but given how the day had gone so far, I didn’t turn it down either.

“Are you all moved in, sugar?” Irma asked, still holding me at arm’s length.

“You need any help carrying in boxes?” George chimed in, keeping a protective arm around each of us.

“Do you have enough food in the house?” Irma added earnestly, clearly afraid I was facing imminent starvation.

I laughed, remembering how hard it was to get a word in edgewise when they were both being parental, which was most of the time.

“Hi, Irma. Hi, George,” I said. “I got here last night with my cats. I’ve already got all my stuff upstairs, but thank you. I am here to get a few groceries. My friend Tori is coming for the weekend.”

“Oh, that’s good, honey,” Irma said. “I just don’t know what I would do without my girlfriends. We are so sorry about Fiona. My goodness, I just can’t imagine this block without her. The service was real nice, honey, and Fiona looked so . . . proper . . . in her casket.”

“The pink pant suit was mom’s idea,” I said grinning. “Aunt Fiona would have hated it, wouldn’t she?”

George burst out laughing. “I’m surprised she’s not already haunting you for putting her in that thing.”

If he only knew.

“You just look around and get whatever you need, honey,” Irma said, stepping back behind the counter. “Take your time. Oh, and be sure to tell me what kind of food and litter your kitties like. If we don’t carry it, I’ll be sure to get some for you.”

Say what you want about life in small towns like Briar Hollow. For every nosy busybody spreading gossip, there were also dozens of good-hearted people with a genuine desire to help folks out.

I spent a few minutes going up and down the aisles getting the essentials for a girls’ weekend, which meant lots of chips, cookies, chocolate, and wine, as well as frozen mac n’ cheese in case we decided real nutrition was in order.

As I was putting the items on the counter for Irma to ring up, she said, “Do we need to keep filling all of Fiona’s standing orders for you?”

Standing orders. What the heck did that mean?

“Well,” I hedged, “I’m not sure. What kind of things did you all get for her?”

Irma reached under the counter and brought out an old-fashioned index card file box. She flipped through the cards and extracted one, studying it for a second before she handed it to me.

I accepted the card and looked at the list of items. Why in the world would Aunt Fiona need a weekly supply of something called wheatgrass? And I didn’t even know if “nori” was a person or a thing.

“Uh, could we put all of this on hold until I figure out if these are things she actually used in the store?”

“Of course,” Irma said. “Some of it is awful hard to find in these parts, but if you need it, we’ll get it, and anything else you need.”

I didn’t tell her that Amazon took care of most of my exotic shopping problems, but then I really wasn’t sure that even the massive online retailer had some of the things on Aunt Fiona’s list.

My ordinary, comfort food purchases fit easily in two bags. When I got back to the shop, Festus, the lame resident cat from next door, was sunning himself on the bench under the front window. I put my bags down and went over to talk to him. Festus and I were old friends, so when I sat down and scratched his ginger ears, he began to purr like a jet engine.

I was so happily engrossed in cooing over Festus, I didn’t hear Chase McGregor come out of the leather shop. “Hi, Jinx,” he said in a friendly voice. “You getting all settled in?”

When I looked up, my heart did its usual little flutter at the sight of the man. Chase probably doesn’t stand more than about 6 feet tall, but he’s broad across the chest and well built. He was dressed in a soft plaid shirt and jeans, and was wearing a long leather apron. His shirt cuffs were rolled up to his elbows, and he was wiping his hands with a rag.

“Hi, Chase,” I said, answering his greeting. “Sorry I talked to Festus first before sticking my head in to say hello to you.”

“Oh, I’m used to it,” he said, sitting down on the other side of the yellow cat. “Festus is a regular ladies man. He always snags the pretty girls before I can talk to them.”

Did he just lump me in the “pretty girl” category?

In spite of my best efforts, I felt a flush of pleasure rise in my cheeks. Realizing he had embarrassed me a little, Chase smoothly continued the conversation.

Handsome
and
sweet.

“You stocking up on the junk food?” he asked, gesturing toward my bags. Three different cookie packages were clearly visible.

I laughed. “Yes, but it’s not all for me,” I said. “I’m a little overwhelmed by Aunt Fiona’s inventory, so I asked my friend Tori to come over for the weekend and help me out.”

Chase shook his head. “I don’t think you can go through all Fiona’s stuff in one weekend,” he said doubtfully.

“Oh, I don’t think so either,” I admitted. “I’m just hoping we can come up with some kind of plan and maybe get the store headed in a more definite direction.”

“I completely understand,” he said. “Fiona wasn’t big on planning things out. She just made things work by feel. I don’t think that approach to business would be an option for anyone but her.” He paused and his voice broke a little on the next words. “I’m going to really miss her,” he said. “She was kind of like my second mom.”

“Thank you, Chase,” I said sincerely. “That is so sweet. And I know you meant a lot to Aunt Fiona, too.”

His blue eyes met my green ones and there was no guile or ulterior motive in what he said next. “I want to be your friend, too, Jinx, so you just call me any time you want to. I live over my shop, all you have to do is bang on the pipes in the corner of your kitchen and I’ll come right over. That’s the signal me and Fiona used.”

“What did she call you to help with?” I asked curiously.

“Mainly opening stubborn lids and eating cookies warm out of the oven,” he grinned.

I grinned back. “I’ll remember that you have expertise in both areas.”

“I’m really well-versed in chocolate chip,” he teased. “It’s a particular area of specialization.”

We both let the flirtatious moment hang enjoyably in the air for a minute and then I said, “Okay. I guess I better let you get back to work. Tori’s going to be here around supper.”

Although he agreed with me, Chase didn’t really look like he wanted to go back to work, or maybe I just wanted to think he didn’t look that way. As I bent down to retrieve my bags, he said, “Hey, tell you what. How about I bring some pizza over tomorrow for lunch? I’m only open half days on Saturday until tourist season gets going good. We all have to eat, and if you need any heavy lifting done, I can help you then.”

Beyond the fact that I wanted to get to know him better, Tori would have my head if I turned down an offer like that which involved both food and a hunky guy. “That would be great,” I said. “But, please, don’t go to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” he said happily. “There’s a new place across the street that makes pizza in a wood fired oven. They’re fantastic. Any preferences?”

“As long as there are no anchovies involved, we’re both open to just about anything.”

“Perfect. How about one o’clock?”

We agreed on the time and said our good-byes. As I was closing the door, Chase picked Festus up. I heard him say to the cat, “Come on, old man. Time for your supper. I’ll save you the walk.”

Handsome. Kind. Cat lover. Is that hitting a triple or what?

G
oing
to the grocery store and visiting with Chase and Festus took up the better part of an hour and a half, and then my boys needed some attention, so I really didn’t get back to work until after 3 o’clock. I made it halfway down the stairs before my heart sank. How was I ever going to tame all this chaos even with Tori’s help?

“What am I supposed to do?” I said aloud, as if speaking to the shop itself. “Just ask you to produce a butter mold and, presto, it appears?”

Let me give you a word of advice. When someone tells you that you’re a witch, don’t go using words like “presto” and speaking to possibly enchanted spaces unless you’re prepared for the unexpected.

On a middle shelf to my right, a stack of cookbooks and a box of light bulbs obligingly moved aside so a butter mold in the shape of a rooster could come scooting to the front before sliding off into thin air. It came floating over to me, turning merry little somersaults, only to wind up a foot from my face -- upside down.

“You’re standing on your head,” I said sarcastically.

The butter mold quickly flipped around and gave a little bobble that looked for all the world like the rooster had just sheepishly shrugged his shoulders.

An idea suddenly occurred to me. “Thank you,” I said, “but you can go on back to your shelf.”

The rooster did a little half bow and promptly returned to its place.

What if it wasn’t all me? What if the shop had its own special brand of enchantment?

If I was going to test my theory, I had to get out of the building. My keys were still in the pocket of my jeans, so I walked straight out of the shop and across the street to the bench by the Confederate Veteran’s monument. I sat down, looking around to make sure no one was watching me. Focusing on a broken branch lying under the big hickory tree to my left, I put out my hand and tried to pull the stick toward me. Nothing.

“Hey,” I said. “You. The crooked stick with the busted end. Can you come over here, please?”

Nothing.

I tried for 15 minutes before I went back to the shop. Closing and locking the door behind me, my eye fell on a cane fishing pole leaning in the corner by a rack of t-shirts. I extended my hand again, and said, “Come here.” In less than 5 seconds I was holding that fishing pole in my hand watching the red-and-white bobber sway slightly on the six inches of loose green cord that wasn’t wrapped around the pole itself.

A funny little sense of elation tickled in the pit of my stomach. For the first time since I woke up that morning, I felt at least moderately in control of my world. Summoning up my courage, I looked at the pole and said, “Thank you. Can you put yourself in the storeroom, please?”

I felt a slight tugging pressure in my hand, and when I released my grip, the pole carefully navigated through the tables and display cases and disappeared into the storeroom.

So that was how Aunt Fiona always knew what was in the shop. She just asked!

All those times she disappeared into the back of the store muttering, she wasn’t searching her memory, she was talking to the shop itself. Quietly. And getting quiet answers. Now we were getting somewhere!

I moved to the center of the room. “Okay,” I said to the space around me. “I think I’m starting to catch on. What if I asked you to quietly show me the eucalyptus oil? Like we had a customer and I didn’t want them to know?”

At first I thought the shop was ignoring me, but then off to my left I heard what sounded like a discreet cough. When I looked in that general direction, what appeared to be a beam of sunlight was illuminating a tiny bottle in one of the glass cases I had yet to examine. When I opened the door and took out the bottle, the label read, “Oil of Eucalyptus.”

It was a magic shop all right, but not in the way I thought -- or at least not completely. I still didn’t know if Aunt Fiona used the crystals or any of the dried herbs to cast spells or mix potions or do whatever it is that practicing witches do, but I had discovered that the shop wasn’t so much something she owned -- it was her partner.

When Tori showed at 6:30, I could hardly contain my excitement. She was barely inside the door before I started babbling.

Now, understand that if I had been talking to one of my saner friends, this conversation would have turned out differently, but insanity is one of Tori’s better qualities. Other than commanding me to slow down and start at the beginning, she stood right there and just listened.

The idea of Aunt Fiona’s ghost paying me a visit that morning didn’t phase Tori in the least. If anything, she sounded relieved. “Thank God Fiona got out of that pink polyester pantsuit,” Tori said vehemently. “I cannot believe your mom expected her own sister to waltz up to the Pearly Gates in that monstrosity.”

That stopped the flow of words from my mouth cold. “Oh Lord,” I said. “Does all this mean there isn’t a heaven?”

Tori rolled her eyes. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said. “I didn’t drive all the way over here for you to get all philosophical on me. Did Fiona look upset about being here? I mean she wasn’t rattling chains or anything like that, was she?”

“No. When I asked her if she was coming back, she said she’d be too busy leading her new afterlife.”

“Then leave it at that,” Tori said firmly. “I don’t think we need to be tackling heaven and hell right now. If she said she’s not coming back, what’s the problem? And why are we standing at the front door?”

“Oh,” I said, remembering my manners. “I’m sorry. Come on upstairs.”

Tori picked up her bag and we started for the staircase. “As much as I hate to agree with your mom about anything,” she said, “this place really is a rat’s nest.”

“I don’t think we should say that anymore,” I suggested diplomatically.

“Why not?” Tori asked. “Who exactly are we going to offend?”

“The shop’s resident adorable rat, Rodney.”

“No!” Tori gasped, her face lighting up. “Show me.”

“Follow me,” I said.

Tori put her stuff down on the bottom step and came with me to the storeroom. I had left a light burning on the little desk. Rodney probably had really great night vision and everything, but even a rat likes a night-light.

“Rodney?” I called. “Come meet Tori.”

I heard the same rustling sound from this morning and in seconds Rodney’s pink nose peeked out tentatively from between the liniment cans.

“It’s okay,” I said. “She won’t hurt you.”

At that, Rodney put his whole head out and Tori started cooing, which is what she does with pretty much any critter on earth, including the skunk she came carrying home when we were ten. Miraculously, Stinky never sprayed her, but I don’t think her mother ever got over the fear that he would.

Stinky lived in the woods right out their back door and would come when Tori called his name. In time, he added Mrs. Stinky and the Stinkettes to the family. The kids went off to skunk college in time, but Stinky and the Missus grew old and died right there in the backyard where they now lie peacefully buried under little pet tombstones Tori ordered from her grandma’s Lillian Vernon catalog.

Tori took one look at Rodney and said, “Oh my
gawd
, you are the most handsome rat I have ever seen in my whole life!”

Rodney perked right up at that, puffing out his chest and straightening his whiskers. It was all I could do to convince Tori not to try to bring him upstairs. She might be the Critter Whisperer, but I couldn’t see even her skills overcoming the rodent-driven instincts of four big tomcats.

Leaving Rodney safely in his bachelor pad, which I had cleaned for him as promised, we started back upstairs. About halfway up, Tori said, as if the idea just occurred to her, “Why did you ask Aunt Fiona’s ghost if she was coming back? Did you
want
her to to haunt you?”

“Not haunt, help,” I said as we went into the apartment.

At the sight of Tori, the cats all came running. She scooped each one up in turn, and then wound up sitting cross-legged on the floor right in the middle of the herd. I let them have their reunion. “Aunt” Tori had known the gang since they were kittens and was personally responsible for my adoption of Winston and Xavier. She rescued both of them from the alley behind the cafe and brought them to my house.

“Why me?” I asked as I reached for the two bedraggled kittens. “Why do I get to be the crazy cat lady?”

Never mind that “crazy cat lady” had been my personal calling in life since mom gave me my first kitten when I was a year old.

“I still have hopes of a social life, Jinksy,” Tori told me, busily setting up a new litter box.

Now, watching her down in the middle of the floor with my guys, and knowing her history with men, I privately thought it wouldn’t take much more than a set of soulful green eyes and a plaintive meow to get her in the tribe with the rest of us. Not to mention the fact that “crazy cat lady” wasn’t nearly the turnoff to guys that “crazy skunk lady” would be.

Tori might have her mind on petting my cats, but her attention was still firmly on our conversation. “What did you want Fiona to help you with?” she asked.

To the considerable delight of the cats, I sat down on the floor, too. “Okay,” I said. “It’s easier to show you than to tell you.”

Aunt Fiona had a stack of magazines lying on the coffee table. I knew the top one was last week’s
People
, so I concentrated on the cover image and beckoned with my hand. You see I had been practicing. If I didn’t know where something was, or if it was even in the building, I could ask the store.

So far the only thing I’d stumped the place on was a request for a pair of men’s suspenders in blue. The store produced a set in red, and let out a sort of apologetic two-note chime to signal its awareness of the substitution. Had anyone been with me at the time, they would have thought they were hearing the bell over the door.

Now, if I knew where something was and could picture it in my mind, or if I was looking straight at the object, I could bring it to me, or move it any other way with a combination of hand gestures and concentration. Try to imagine being able to stretch your arm all the way across the room to pick something up. That’s kinda what it feels like.

While Tori and the cats watched, I brought the
People
magazine slowly across the room and deposited it in Tori’s lap. My aim was starting to get pretty good.

Tori looked down at the cover for a minute and then said, “I cannot believe how trashy Miley has gotten. I just do not know how Billy Ray puts up with it. That little gal needs a whupping.”

“That’s it?” I said, stunned. “I just levitated a magazine across the room and you’re worried about Miley Cyrus being trashy?”

“Only because I can’t even talk about Blake and Miranda without crying,” she said seriously.

“You do know what this means?” I pressed.

“That Johnny and June were country music’s last great love story?” she asked with fake, innocent eyes.

“Tori.”

“Yeah, Jinksy, I know what it means. You’re a witch like Aunt Fiona.”

“Well, you’re sure taking the news calmly,” I said drily.

“Jinx Hamilton,” she said firmly, “I have known you my whole life and you don’t have a wicked bone in your body. I love you just the way you are. Now tell me everything.”