Witch at Heart: A Jinx Hamilton Witch Mystery Book 1 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) (9 page)

C
hase was sitting
on the bench beside the front door of his shop when I stepped out onto the sidewalk. He had changed into a maroon polo and softly worn jeans and his hair still looked a little damp from the shower. The instant he saw me, he was on his feet, a big smile spreading over his face.

“Hi!” he said. “You look nice.”

I returned his smile and thanked him for the compliment as my eyes fell on the rather large stack of books sitting on the bench. “Wow,” I said. “Do we need a wheelbarrow for those?”

Chase laughed. “No, I think I can manage.”

“Let me take some of them,” I offered, holding out my hands.

“You sure?” he said, reaching for the books.

Was I sure? Of course I was sure. I wanted to know what he was reading.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll consider it pre-pasta exercise.”

Chase selected the lighter volumes and handed them to me, holding the heftier books with both hands as we started walking toward the library. When he had passed the books to me, I was able to quickly read two titles:
Regiments and Uniforms of the Civil War
and
Civil War Collector’s Encyclopedia.

“Is the war about to break out again?” I asked.

“Huh?” Chase said, crinkling his forehead. Then it dawned on him what I was talking about. “Oh, no. I’ve been commissioned to make some boots for a Civil War movie that’s going to be shot in Pennsylvania. The director wants everything authentic down to the last stitch, so I was doing some research.”

He held up a copy of
Crimson Shore
by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. “This is more my speed when it comes to pleasure reading.”

My eyes lit up. “Have you read the whole series?” I asked excitedly. “Which one was your favorite? I was completely hooked after I read
Cabinet of Curiosities
.”

Chase’s own eyes widened. “You read the Pendergast books?”

I nodded excitedly. “I loved the one about Helen.”

“
Cold Vengeance
,” Chase said. “Could you believe the bit with the lion?”

We returned his books and continued our animated conversation all the way to the Stone Hearth, the one-man pizzeria that became my new happy place the instant I walked in the door. The restaurant occupied what must have been an old general store. The building was older than the one I now owned and had been lovingly restored. The hardwood floors dipped and rolled from years of wear, but they also gleamed with a new finish I suspected was hand rubbed.

The thick stone walls presented diners with a fascinating interplay of textures and shapes to study while they waited for their food, and the smell of cooking pizza wafted throughout the space from the open hearth oven clearly visible in the kitchen. The evening was warm, but the interior of the shop was cool to the point of being cavernous.

The proprietor, introduced to me simply as “Pete, the pizza guy,” took our order and brought us a carafe of red wine. Chase and I segued from books to films, and when our food came, we’d had just discovered we both liked to take long bike rides.

As I took the first bite of absolutely heavenly lasagna, Chase said, “So, when were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you and Tori went up to Weber’s Gap yesterday and found a skeleton.”

“Oh,” I said, reaching for my wine as a stalling tactic. “That.”

Honestly? Since the previous owner of that skeleton was currently camped out on my couch with my cats binge watching
Gilmore Girls
on my laptop, I had forgotten that the discovery of the remains had likely caused something of a stir.

“Oh that?” Chase said, arching his eyebrows. “Have you looked at the news today?”

I shook my head. “No, I really don’t watch the news. It’s too scary and depressing.”

“But how will you know when something major happens in the world?” he asked.

“I get a text from Tori,” I answered honestly. “Seriously, I wouldn’t have known about 9/11 for hours if she hadn’t called me that morning.”

Chase took a drink of his own wine. “Well, your approach probably makes for a happier life, but I have to admit I’m an information junkie. Your discovery up at the Gap made the news in Winston-Salem.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, “was it a slow news day or something?”

“You really don’t keep up, do you?” Chase said, shaking his head. “There was another skeleton found on a hiking trail about an hour from here just last month.”

A little tingling sensation started up my spine. I didn’t know if the feeling was my newfound magic or my trusty old Spidey sense saying loud and clear,
“Uh oh.”

What I said was, “Really? Have the police identified the body?”

At just that moment Pete arrived with a warm loaf of bread. Chase and I both tore off fragrant chunks and dipped them in the bowl of olive oil that our host also deposited on the table. Chase didn’t answer my question until we were alone again.

“All the police have been able to determine is that those remains are about 25 years old and they belong to a young girl.”

I was already running the numbers in my head. The last thing Grace remembers happened 30 years ago. Now I was hearing about remains from a body that had been out in the woods 25 years. Jane was found 20 years ago. Coincidence or pattern?

Fortunately my brain and my mouth can run in different directions with a fair amount of efficiency. “That’s awful,” I heard myself saying. “Do the police think there’s a connection to the remains we found?”

“They aren’t saying anything official right now,” Chase answered. “But, of course, the reporters are having a field day with the two discoveries. I’m surprised they haven’t showed up on your doorstep.”

Which they probably would do. I needed to check the news stories and call Tori later. The fact that I hadn’t heard from her was strange. Normally she would have let me know if we made the news. Especially since that was something that had never happened to us before.

“So,” Chase prodded, “how
did
you all find the skeleton?”

I gave Chase a slightly sanitized version of the previous day’s events, going with the “it was a pretty day so we decided to get outdoors” angle, which made sense since we’d spent Saturday cooped up in the shop. This was followed with a faithful recitation of the photo contest alibi. The last thing you want to do with a concocted story is vary the details.

That thankfully led off to a discussion of photography and cameras, an interest Chase shared with Tori, and there was no more talk of skeletal remains and potential serial killers -- which was fine with me, because that’s so
not
date conversation material.

When the dinner crowd thinned out, Pete showed us his little apartment behind the shop, which was almost exactly what Tori had in mind. The place was filled with clever storage ideas and was so well ordered, I was shocked when Pete told us it was just 375 square feet. He suggested I bring Tori over on Saturday to see the place for herself.

“She’ll drive you nuts with questions,” I warned.

“That’s okay,” Pete said. “I don’t mind. If you’re going to make a small space work, you have to plan in advance. Besides, your friend sounds like fun.”

I had already noted the lack of a wedding ring on Pete’s left hand, and Chase had said the pizzeria was a one-man operation. I know, I know. Stop playing matchmaker. But let’s be honest here. With Tori’s track record, I could already tell Pete would be a step up for her.

When we exited the restaurant, the streetlights had come on, bathing the courthouse square in large pools of yellow light. “Would you do me the honor of a stroll, Miss Hamilton?” Chase said, affecting a courtly Southern accent and offering me his arm.

Shifting instantly into Scarlet mode, I said, “Why, Mr. McGregor, I would be delighted.”

When I slipped my hand in the crook of Chase’s arm, I felt pleasantly hard muscle beneath my fingers. Could a guy get this buff working on shoes for a living?

“How long have you been a cobbler?” I asked.

“Since I was 20,” Chase said. “About ten years now. And thank you for using the right word for what I do. I get really tired of being introduced as the ‘shoe repair guy.’”

I shuddered. “Ugh. I don’t blame you. Cobbler is a wonderful, old-fashioned word.”

“Which most people think refers to a gooey fruit dessert with lots of crust.”

“Also a wonderful thing,” I pointed out.

Chase chuckled and said, “Peach.”

I responded with, “Cherry.”

This was a very good sign. We were already probing deeper into each other’s likes and dislikes. Although my “starting a relationship” gears were pretty rusty, this all seemed to be moving along nicely.

Chase didn’t slow his steps when we passed by our own shops, but about halfway to the grocery store on the corner, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you’d like to go around again.”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s a beautiful evening and I’m having a wonderful time.”

“Me, too,” he said. “I’m sure sorry about the reason why you’ve moved in next door, but I think I’m really glad you did.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I’m sorry about the reason, too.”

“Do you miss her?” Chase asked.

I sighed. “Truthfully, I hadn’t seen Aunt Fiona much in the last few years. She and my mom had kind of a dicey relationship. Fiona and I did talk on the phone pretty often though, and I loved knowing she and the shop were here when I needed them.”

“Isn’t that funny,” Chase said thoughtfully. “People always mention Fiona and the shop in the same breath. It’s almost like the shop was a second person.”

“Well,” I said, going for a neutral comment, “you have to admit the place has a lot of personality.”

Actually, Myrtle was loaded with personality, but that’s not exactly something I could explain to Chase.

“Fiona sorta treated the place like it was a person,” Chase said.

That warning bell sounded in my head again. Fiona might not have left me with a copy of
How to Be a Witch for Dummies
, but I instinctively knew this was information that was best when selectively shared.

“Why do you say that?” I asked innocently.

Chase hesitated, and then said, “I don’t want to make it sound like Fiona was getting senile or anything, but she sure did talk to herself a lot.”

“Did she?” I asked.

“She really did,” Chase affirmed. “Sometimes when she couldn’t find something, she’d actually ask the shop to show her where it was.”

God, Fiona. Did you even know the meaning of the word “discretion?”

“You’re not going to offend me by saying Aunt Fiona was eccentric,” I told him, which was completely the truth. “In our family she’s known as Crazy Aunt Fiona.”

“Fiona wasn’t crazy,” Chase said loyally, “but she was different.”

Now there was one for the Understatement Hall of Fame.

Even though our conversation was still going strong, I halted us in front of our stores after the third circuit of the square. I couldn’t tell Chase this, but I was starting to feel guilty about leaving Grace and the cats alone. The ghost might not mind, but the cats were a different matter.

As we said our goodnights, Chase leaned in and gave me a soft kiss on the lips. He wasn’t making a move, so much as testing the waters to see if we were headed in the same direction. I think we passed the test.

He waited until I was safely inside the store to turn toward his own shop, and just as I closed the door, I heard him say, “Good night, Jinx. Remember, knock on the pipes if you need anything.”

No sooner did I lock the door than I heard Tony Orlando and Dawn singing, “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me . . .”

“Very funny, Myrtle,” I said to the darkened store. “Quit spying on me and start listening to some new music.”

The store rewarded me with a few bars of
Single Ladies
.

Note to self. Never underestimate Myrtle.

W
hen I got upstairs
, Grace and the cats were on the sofa right where I had left them. As promised, I filled my ectoplasmic houseguest in on the details of my date before excusing myself to call Tori -- who basically wanted the same details, but interrupted me way more.

When I could finally get a word in edgewise, I asked, “So is Chase right? Were we on the news?”

“We were on the news in that a talking head identified us as ‘hikers who disobeyed the signs and wandered off the path,’” Tori said.

I didn’t have to be looking at her to know she rolled her eyes when she said it.

“Did you know about the other girl who was found a month ago?” I asked.

“I remember hearing the story,” Tori said, “but I didn’t pay all that much attention to it. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically. “Three murdered girls in a radius of 50 miles all estimated to have been killed five years apart? Let me go out on a limb here. Pattern?”

Tori laughed, but it was a bitter sound on the line. “Exactly,” she agreed. “Has Grace remembered anything about who she really is? Because if this is a pattern, she could have been the first one killed.”

“No,” I said, lowering my voice a little. “She just said she thinks she remembers having fun when she was alive and being happy.”

Tori groaned. “God,” she said, “could this possibly get any sadder?”

I really, really hoped it couldn’t -- and wouldn’t.

Glancing at the clock, I said, “You have to be up for the breakfast shift, so we better hang up. I’m going to spend some time on the Internet tomorrow seeing what I can find out about missing persons in the area for the last 30 years. Let’s Facetime when you get off work and talk about what I’ve found out.”

“That sounds like a plan,” she said, “but before I let you go, I gave Tom my 30-day notice.”

“How did he take it?” I asked cautiously.

“Oh, he banged a skillet and called me an ingrate,” Tori said, “and then muttered something about how he’d just been waiting for me to tag along after you.”

“Which in Tom-speak means he was expecting this and wasn’t really mad, he just had to put on a show.”

“Exactly,” Tori said. “He’s already got three girls lined up and he wants me to be there when he talks to them since I will also be expected to train them.”

“Train them?” I said. “Haven’t any of them waited tables before?”

“They all have,” Tori said. “According to him, it’s my job to teach them how he likes things done.”

That really did make me laugh. There’s no mystery about how Tom likes things done. He bellows his preferences at the top of his lungs all day, every day.

“Lucky you,” I said.

“Maybe I can save them the case of nerves his hollering gives people until they figure out he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she sighed. “Selective deafness is an important job skill when you work for Tom.”

We said our goodnights and I went into the living room to tell Grace it was time for me to go to bed. She didn’t object when I shut off the laptop, just excused herself to go talk to Myrtle. The cats watched her disappear through the door (literally
through
the door) with wistful expressions, and then turned accusatory eyes on me.

“I know, I know,” I said. “I should be the one sitting with you on the couch for hours on end. Kinda trying to have a life here guys. Grace doesn’t have that problem.”

That won me four diffident and resigned feline expressions that only marginally softened as we all trouped to the bedroom. I would like to tell you that the cats all sleep in the same place each night, well out of my way, and that I am in charge of the allocation of mattress-based real estate. That is, if I didn’t mind telling an enormous lie. The system works like this. They pick their spots and I take what’s left over, which is often about six inches on the edge of the bed.

When everyone had staked their claim and I was really starting to drift off to sleep, a sound in my bedroom brought me instantly awake. Sitting up carefully so as not to awaken my furry bedmates, I called out softly, “Grace, is that you?”

When there was no answer, I turned on the bedside lamp only to discover an empty wine bottle floating in mid-air at the foot of my bed with what appeared to be a rolled up piece of paper inside.

There was only one person I knew who could be that theatrical. Aunt Fiona.

I drew the bottle toward me with my newfound magic. Before I could take hold of it, however, the cork popped out and the bottle upended itself, allowing the note to slide neatly through the neck. As the paper landed in my lap, the bottle righted itself and very politely went to sit on the bedside table without being asked.

I unrolled the message and found several lines penned in Aunt Fiona's neat script. “Jinx,” it began, “would you please quit hollering at me all the time? I can’t come to the shop right now.”

Right. Because being dead involves a non-stop round of appointments that won’t wait?

“You’re doing great, honey,” the note went on. “I’m so glad you’ve been in touch with Colonel Longworth and the other spirits at the cemetery. It was one of my greatest disappointments that I was never able to discover Jane’s real name. I didn’t know that Grace was up there on the trail.”

Geez. Was Aunt Fiona watching me through some kind of metaphysical nanny cam or was Myrtle just a big snitch?

And, what did the wording of that sentence mean anyway?

Did Aunt Fiona really
not
know there was a second ghost of a murdered girl, or was she saying she just hadn’t known
where
Grace had been hanging out all these years?

Specificity, specificity. My kingdom for a little specificity.

I went back to reading the message and almost choked on the last line. “As your powers continue to show up, just go with the flow. -- Aunt Fiona.”

Wait.

Go with the flow? That’s all you’ve got for me?

And continue to show up? There’s
more
coming?

Didn’t I have enough to deal with already?

So much for the whole sleep thing. If I was going to be awake, I might as well be productive and get started in my research.

I eased out of bed and went into the living room to retrieve my laptop. When I came back, Xavier had already appropriated the warm spot I left behind.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I scolded, picking him up and depositing him between Yule and Zeke. I don’t even think he bothered to wake up.

It wasn’t hard to find the news reports about the discovery of skeletal remains on a hiking trail near Sparta, but I really didn’t learn anything else. The only thing Chase left out in his verbal account at dinner was the fact that the skull showed signs of blunt force trauma. That was consistent with the medical findings about Jane’s death, and with my fleeting perception of a tripod coming right at my face.

Grace thought I had the vision because I stumbled on the exact spot where Jane’s body was found. Did that mean what I saw was triggered by touch? Huh. That was an interesting idea.

After several minutes with Google, I had a name for what happened to me -- psychometry. Official definition: The supposed ability to discover facts about an event or person by touching inanimate objects associated with them.

I stared at the words on the screen. The first time was an accident. Could I use the ability intentionally?

Glancing around the room, my eye fell on an antique music box sitting atop the high dresser in the corner. When I was little, Aunt Fiona would wind the box for me and let me listen to it play, but she never let me touch it, saying, “This music box is very precious to me, honey. I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

I got up again and walked over to the dresser. With great care I picked up the music box and suddenly I was in a warm, cozy room with a huge Christmas tree in the corner by the fireplace. In my hands I held a box wrapped in red and green paper. I could see my hands, or rather the hands of a child, carefully peeling the paper away.

Inside the package, the music box lay nestled in tissue. A little girl’s awed voice said, “Oh, Papa, it’s beautiful!” And then a man’s voice answered, “Open the lid, Fiona. It plays Chopin.”

The first tinkling notes began to play and I was once again standing in the bedroom holding the music box in my hands, tears filling my eyes. I had just heard my grandfather’s voice again for the first time since I was 10 years old.

Almost reverently, I put the music box safely back in place. If I could touch something that belonged to Grace, could I help her find her mother? But what could that “something” possibly be? So far the only option was the poor girl’s skeleton. I couldn’t imagine waltzing into the coroner’s office and saying, “Excuse me? Could I please touch those bones so I can get a vision and figure out who this poor kid really was?”

Not that I
wouldn’t
have done it to help Grace, but I was pretty certain I wouldn’t be
allowed
to do it.

Let me give you a word of advice disguised as a little literary foreshadowing. Most of the time when you think you only have one option? Think again.

In the end, I wound up letting the cats have the bed while I curled up on the couch where I was finally able to fall asleep. The next morning I awakened to find all four of the furry miscreants sitting in a perfect row on the coffee table staring at me. No alarm clock needed in my household.

After they were fed, I had yogurt and toast, dressed, and went downstairs to greet the day. Or rather to greet Grace, who was, once again, standing at the front window watching people starting to come and go on Main Street.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hi,” she answered. “Can you come here for a minute?”

“Sure,” I said, walking over to join her. “What’s going on?”

“Do you see that florist’s shop over there by the library?” Grace asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I think my homecoming corsage came from there.”

I wanted to let out a celebratory whoop. This was our first sign of progress, but something told me that if Grace was remembering, the images she was getting might be very fragile. I kept my excitement in check and simply asked, “Are you sure?”

Grace nodded. “Pretty sure,” she said. “And I think I have a library book that’s overdue.”

Uh oh. Unless the local library offers a debt forgiveness option, somebody was going to be in for a shock when that bill came due.

“Do you think you lived in Briar Hollow?” I asked cautiously.

“I think I was a cheerleader,” Grace said suddenly. “For the Briar Hollow Bears.”

Never mind name, age, and Social Security number.

She knew the high school mascot.

Now we were getting somewhere.

“Let’s go to the library,” I said.

Grace’s face fell. “I don’t know where that book is,” she said. “It was something for English class about catching grains.”

Huh? Catching grains?

Oh. Wait.

Catcher in the Rye
.

She was close enough.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The librarian can’t see you and you wouldn’t have liked that book anyway. Trust me.”

The day was still young enough that I didn't have to be worried about customers. This was too important to wait anyway. What if Grace’s emerging memories started to fade?

She followed me willingly across the square to the library, which was housed in an old red brick building. The hinges of the front door squeaked when we came in, which alerted a very stereotypical librarian, complete with gray bun, to stick her head out of the room behind the counter.

“Good morning,” she said. “Help yourself to coffee.” She indicated a single-cup coffee maker and a carousel of assorted brew cups on a table under the big front window that looked out on the square.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I don’t really have time to browse. I’m Jinx Hamilton. I inherited my Aunt Fiona’s store across the square.”

“Oh my goodness!” the woman exclaimed, coming out from behind the counter and engulfing me in a hug. “I’m Linda Albert. Fiona and I were in the same book club. I just loved your aunt to pieces! She did pick some strange books for us to read sometimes, but my heavens, she was just so much fun that we didn’t mind.”

I wisely refrained from asking about Aunt Fiona’s “strange” literary choices.

“It’s nice to meet you, Linda. I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

“I’d love to, honey,” she said. “What do you need?”

“Do you have old copies of the local high school yearbook?” I asked.

“You bet I do,” she said. “All the way back to 1906. Come with me.”

Grace and I followed Linda into a side room, where she pointed out a long shelf filled with high school yearbooks covered in various combinations of red and black in keeping with the local high school colors.

“Why in the world do you want to see old yearbooks?” Linda asked me curiously.

“Oh,” I said, “I’m just finding lots of things in the store that seem to be local heirlooms. Sports trophies and such. I thought I’d try to get them back to people who might care about them.”

It was one of my thinner fabrications, but Linda seemed good with thin. Before she could ask me anything else, I was literally saved by the squeaking front-door hinges announcing the arrival of another patron.

“You just come find me if you need anything else,” Linda said, bustling off toward the front. “Take all the time you want.”

I turned to Grace and said in a low voice, “Are you ready to do this?”

She looked hopeful and terrified at the same time. “Yes,” she said. “I want to know who I am.”

Scanning the yearbooks, I pulled out the one for 1984, just in case Grace’s memory was off. It wasn’t. We found her on the second page of the junior class portraits. Under the picture, the name read “Elizabeth ‘Beth’ Barlow.” She had been a cheerleader, and judging from the list of other activities, she had also been fun.

Beside me, the girl let out a little sigh. “I loved that blouse,” she said simply.

“You remember?” I asked gently.

“Yes,” she said. “But I don’t know how I got up there in the woods.”