4 Witching On A Star (2 page)

“There will also be plenty of room for you to make your wine,” my mom continued. “We’re going to have everything you need all in one place for you. Won’t that be convenient?”

Aunt Tillie considered the offer. Only people that really knew her would be able to tell how excited she really was. She hid it well. “Fine,” she said finally. “I think a greenhouse is a good idea.”

“Good,” my mom said, relief washing over her face. “Let me show you where we were thinking of putting it. You’re going to be able to have input on every little decision. It’s going to be a greenhouse entirely of your making.”

“What about breakfast?” Clove whined. Like everyone else in my family, she was food-oriented above all else.

“After breakfast,” my mom conceded.

Once everyone had filed out into the dining room and only Aunt Tillie and I were left, I turned to her curiously. “You know they’re only doing this to distract you from your battle plans, don’t you?”

“I do,” Aunt Tillie nodded.

“Is it going to work?”

Aunt Tillie shrugged mischievously. “Who knows?”

I knew. There was nothing that was going to distract Aunt Tillie when she set her mind to it. She was just letting my mom and aunts think she was focusing on the new greenhouse.

It was going to be a long couple of weeks.

After breakfast, my mom led us to the spot she had in mind for the greenhouse. The Overlook property is hard to explain. Our family has owned the parcel the inn currently sits on for centuries. The first homestead on the property was a cabin, which was later expanded into a Victorian home – which was used as a small visitor lodging when I was a child.

A few years ago, my mom and aunts decided to expand the property into a full-fledged bed and breakfast, taking advantage of their kitchen and organizational skills. This part of Michigan doesn’t have a huge industrial base, so when the town leaders decided to rebrand Hemlock Cove as a “fake” witch town years ago – as a way to keep the town viable and take advantage of the local ski and golf facilities – my mother and aunts had embraced the idea and expanded (and renamed) The Overlook to reflect that rebranding.

Most of the town doesn’t realize that they have real witches living amongst them. They know we’re weird, but they don’t know we’re magical. I’m fairly certain most of them believe that Aunt Tillie is abject evil, though. That has more to do with her personality than her powers, though.

In addition to the main house – which kept the bones of the older family dwelling at the back, where my mom and aunts still reside – the property also boasts a guesthouse that was utilized for tourists in the 1970s and where Clove, Thistle and I currently reside.

The greenhouse was going to be constructed at the back edge of the main property – which abutted several acres of wooded land we also owned – and overlooked a small creek and was nestled next to a large bluff.

It was actually the perfect spot for a greenhouse.

Aunt Tillie didn’t look convinced – or maybe she was just being difficult, it’s hard to tell. “How big is it going to be?”

“How big do you want it to be?” My mom asked warily.

“Big,” Aunt Tillie said honestly. “There’s a lot of stuff I want to grow.”

“No pot,” my mom reminded her.

“I’m not stupid,” Aunt Tillie blew out a frustrated sigh. “You don’t grow pot in a greenhouse anyway. That’s the first place the cops will look.”

“Always good advice,” Thistle said sagely.

“Are you being fresh?”

My attention was momentarily distracted from the burgeoning fight between Aunt Tillie and Thistle by a hint of movement at the edge of the woods. At first, I thought it was an animal, but the closer I looked I realized that it was a little girl.

Under the bright sky, it took my eyes a second to register what I was seeing. The little girl was dressed in a plain white dress and her dark skin helped hide her from prying eyes. She must be lost, I realized. Why else would she be here?

The little girl’s dark eyes met mine, our gazes locking together. She seemed surprised when she saw I was staring directly at her. That surprise washed over her face quickly. She glanced to the trees behind her and then turned back to me curiously.

I took a step towards her, smiling warmly. I didn’t want to scare her. “Are you lost?”

“Who are you talking to?” Thistle asked curiously, her eyes following my sight line.

“There’s a little girl over there,” I said, pointing to the clump of trees. “I think she must be lost.”

Everyone turned in the direction I was looking. When I turned back, though, the little girl was gone.

“There’s no one there,” Clove said.

I walked over to the area, which was only starting to show the signs of spring growth, and frowned as I looked around. The little girl had disappeared – and there was nowhere within a reasonable distance for her to be able to hide. “I swear I saw a little girl.”

“Did you recognize her?” My mom asked.

“No.”

“What did she look like?” Marnie asked worriedly.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I think she was about eight or ten. She had black hair, in braids, and she was wearing a white dress. She was black.”

“Black?” My mom raised her eyebrows in surprise. I didn’t blame her. While some black families resided in this area, they were still the rarity – not the norm. “Are you sure?”

“I thought so,” I bit my lower lip.

“Light was probably just playing tricks on you,” Aunt Tillie said, turning back to the spot where her greenhouse was to be erected. “That happens to me all the time. I have glaucoma.”

My mom frowned at Aunt Tillie. “Since when?”

“Why do you think I need the marijuana?”

“Because you just like breaking the law?” Thistle suggested.

“I knew you were going to be a problem today,” Aunt Tillie grumbled. “I just knew it.”

I cast one last glance back at the spot where I had seen the little girl and then moved back to my family. Maybe they were right. Maybe I had imagined her.

AN HOUR
later I managed to extricate myself from Aunt Tillie’s grand greenhouse plans and make my way to work.

The Whistler is Hemlock Cove’s only newspaper – and it’s really only a newspaper in the loosest sense of the word. It’s more like a weekly advertorial, with one main story and a bevy of birth announcements and area happenings intermixed.

I had actually gone to college and earned a journalism degree. After graduation, I had moved down to the Detroit area to work at a “real” newspaper for two years. While I had liked the excitement of the city and the rush I got when covering something of actual importance, the miles and miles of pavement and the stifling buildings made me feel like I was suffocating. I found I wanted to be home more than I wanted to chase a big story.

When I got back to Hemlock Cove, William Kelly, a local businessman that my family had dealings with throughout the years, gave me a job as editor of the paper. Several months ago, William had died, and his grandson, Brian, was the current owner of The Whistler.

Brian Kelly was handsome and charismatic. He was also a royal pain in the rear with delusions of grandeur that far outweighed his skill set. Basically, I tolerated him and he tried to bulldoze me. It wasn’t a great combination.

When I got to my office, I found Edith waiting for me – and she didn’t look happy, not that she ever did. Edith is The Whistler’s resident ghost. Back in the day, she wrote the local advice column. She had died at her desk, after eating what I suspected was a poisoned dinner, and she’d been haunting The Whistler ever since.

Oh, yeah, I can see ghosts. That’s my special talent. No one else in my family, with the exception of Aunt Tillie, has that particular gift. In the past, I’d thought of it as a curse more than anything else – especially when the townsfolk thought I was wandering around Hemlock Cove talking to myself -- but I was starting to rethink that avenue of thought in recent months.

“What’s up?”

“He’s up to something again,” Edith said.

“Who?”

“Brian,” Edith replied grimly.

The truth is, I have suspected Brian Kelly of a number of nefarious things since he came to town – including murder, on occasion. While he’s proven to be a duplicitous businessman, I’ve come to the realization that he’s not capable of much else. He’s just too much of a ninny.

“What’s he doing now?” Since Edith was a ghost, and Brian couldn’t see her, I’d often utilized her busybody nature to spy on him. What? I’m not proud of it. I’m not ceasing that particular action anytime soon either.

“He’s been on the phone with someone about a new plan,” Edith whispered conspiratorially. I have no idea why she whispers. It’s not like anyone but me can hear her.

“What kind of plan?” Edith always thinks something evil is afoot when, sometimes, Brian is actually just conducting legitimate business.

“If I knew that, don’t you think I would have told you?”

She had a point. “Well, if you hear anything else, let me know.”

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

“I know.”

“I help you out of the goodness of my heart, because I’m a good Christian woman.” And because she had nothing better to do with her time.

“I know.”

“You should at least thank me for my efforts.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank me, for what?”

I looked up in surprise to see Brian standing in the door to my office. Edith looked horrified as she shrank into the corner. She obviously hadn’t heard him coming either. I tried to pretend like Brian’s sudden appearance hadn’t thrown me for a loop. “Sorry, what?”

“Who were you thanking?” Brian glanced around my empty office, his eyes flashing over Edith but not seeing anything.

“I was just talking to myself,” I lied.

“Oh, I do that sometimes,” Brian said, although his face belied that statement. “What were you talking about?”

“I was just thinking about Aunt Tillie,” I said.

Since he was staying at the inn until he found a place of his own – something I was starting to doubt would actually happen – Brian was familiar with Aunt Tillie. If Clove was scared of Aunt Tillie, Brian was terrified of her. He continued to stay at the inn, though, because my mom and aunts doted on him.

“What about your Aunt Tillie?”

“She got a big gift this morning,” I said with a small smile. “My mom and aunts think it’s going to keep her busy for months.”

Brian looked relieved. “Oh, yeah, and what is that?”

“They’re building her a greenhouse on the property.”

“A greenhouse?” Brian looked confused. “Why?”

“So she can grow things.” Just not pot. “And make her wine in her own space.”

“Oh,” Brian nodded. “They’re trying to appease her. She’s been upset about that wine closet thing for months.”

“Yeah. This will make her happy for a little while.”

“And keep her busy.”

“And keep her busy,” I agreed. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brian ran a hand through his blond hair haphazardly. “I have a new idea.”

Oh, good. Brian was always coming up with ideas for the paper. Most of them weren’t feasible in this area. “What’s that?”

“We’re expanding,” Brian announced happily.

“Expanding how?”

“We’re going to start printing three times a week. Isn’t that a great idea?”

That was a terrible idea. “There’s not enough news in Hemlock Cove to put out three editions a week.” Not to mention there were only two full-time employees and two part-time employees to handle all these new editions.

“Oh, I think you’re wrong there,” Brian said. “This town is happening lately. There have been murders and drug kingpins. It’s just as busy as Detroit.”

Not exactly. “Those were isolated incidents,” I reminded him. “We’ve had three big stories and nothing else. It’s been quiet for months.”

Brian frowned. “Why are you trying to talk me out of this? I thought you would be excited to be the editor of a real newspaper?”

“Brian, I don’t want to diminish your dreams,” I said carefully. “But, in a normal week, we don’t have enough news to fill one edition. Last week, the top story was a feature on the stables changing the feed for the horses.”

Brian waved off my statement. “It was just a down week.”

“The week before I wrote about the fact that it was spring. That was it. That it was spring.”

“So? People liked that story.”

I decided to try a different tactic. “News print is expensive. How can you justify two more editions of the newspaper and no more news?”

“The ads will make up for it,” Brian said.

“We don’t exactly have an expanding ad base,” I reminded him, the arrival of the Dragonfly Inn notwithstanding.

“But we’re always full of ads,” Brian countered.

“Once a week, yes,” I said. “However, the paper is really just printed for the tourists and that’s why we get ads once a week. Why would the local businesses, which have a captive audience with the tourists, place ads more than once a week?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Brian had no idea how a newspaper actually worked, especially one like The Whistler. That much was obvious.

“Good luck,” I said finally. I figured that the minute he actually got someone in here to tell him how much this was going to cost he would change his mind. I was done trying to make him see reason. It always proved to be fruitless. He had to learn things on his own.

“Now that’s what I want to hear,” Brian said with a bright smile as he turned to leave my office. “I’ll keep you updated as things move forward.”

“I can’t wait.”