The Witching Hour (The Witches Pendragon Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

“It’s not a robe, it’s a dress. And they’re not insects, they’re butterflies.”

“How strange that nature does not knock and yet never does intrude,” Monique said, quoting some famous poet.

“Hush with your nonsense! Can’t you see? Nothing is covering her ankles?” Hendra stared at my calves as if they were pornographic.

“That’s Emily Dickinson, my dear, she doesn’t write ‘nonsense.’ You really should avail yourself of the books at the town library…”

In the end I left them bickering and went on to show the younger witches my new dress. That day changed everything. Seeing me in a modern outfit, Elfie, Manon, and Camille gave up their long robes and went shopping as well. And it wasn’t just the clothes we changed –like Manon, we also changed our names.

So now we are a coven divided. There are those of us who still wear the long robes –Hatha, Hendra, Monique, Beatrice, and Sheila all walk around town pretending to be nuns. And then there are those of us who have chopped off our long locks and pass around copies of Vogue after the more traditional witches go to bed.

“…and since the townsfolk of Amboise just assumed that a bunch of women wearing long black robes must be nuns, I just ran with it. Never mind that we are pagans to the core,” Hendra continues as Beatrice carries in tonight’s entree.

“Was it really necessary that you put up that sign saying ‘The Sisters of Perpetual Patience’ on the front gate?” Elfie asks.

Hendra snorts. “Well, we had to have a name for our order, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but it’s a stupid name, and the sign is written in blood red. It looks like something out of a horror movie.”

“Hmm, what say you, Hatha? Do you like my sign or what?” Hendra asks with a raised brow.

All eyes swivel to look at our head witch, who has never weighed in on Hendra’s sign. Truth is, I think Hatha might be in the middle of converting to the new religion. She has recently taken to wearing a small silver cross on a chain around her neck.

“I see no harm in these pretenses. And I guess since the local priest is refusing to do exorcisms, people with paranormal problems have come to us nuns…um…er…witches. You all are correct about Noelle’s ghost. Perhaps I am being short-sighted. Perhaps we should help people with paranormal problems while we’re here in modern day France.” She looks at each of us in turn and lets out a small smile.

“Come now, it’s true,” she continues, “we do know a few tricks. We’ve met plenty of ghosts in our day, and I suppose if we can help them to the beyond where they can find rest, it is our duty. But we must remember that we’re here temporarily. It could be any moment now that Merllyd opens the portal and we head home.”

“Then I should help the vagabond?” I ask.

“Yes, I suppose. See what he wants,” Hatha replies.

“I’m pretty sure I know what he wants.”

“Ah yes, it is always the same,” Monique says, coming to life as Beatrice brings out a large chocolate cake for dessert.

“Dollars to donuts,” I say using an expression Elfie taught me after her trip to America, “The ghost wants us to find his murderer.”

Between sips of wine and bites of chocolate cake, everyone at the table nods their heads.

Yes, with ghosts it is always the same, they either want justice or vengeance, or both.

I, Elfie, think that Amboise is beautiful in all seasons, but in fall, with the leaves cascading down all over the Loire valley, it’s spectacular. Tourism drops off, and the work at the chocolate shop slows. Noelle, whose real name is Lauretha, can handle the customers by herself. All of which means I am free to help track down the Count’s ghost. Which is a good thing because after further discussion last night, Hatha decided we should drive to Chateau Trisse and rid them of their ghost. Before we leave town however, there’s one thing I’d like to do. I need to find an electrician who can rewire the chandelier and help out with our other pressing issues as well. Most importantly I need someone to fix the central heating system. None of us want to spend another winter like the last one, chopping down trees in the middle of the night and dragging them back to burn in in the chateau’s fireplaces.

And to think you actually aren’t allowed to go around chopping down trees in modern day France. The police wrote Hatha a ticket for felling a large oak that was in front of the house. Just goes to show that living 1600 years into the future comes with a steep learning curve.

Given this pressing need to sort out our wiring, Hendra and I walk the half a mile to town and head for
La Bonne Chaleur,
a heating and electrical supply store on the Rue des Halles. In such a tiny city,
La Bonne Chaleur
also doubles as the town’s hardware store. Today, there’s a bunch of new snow shovels optimistically arranged in a bright yellow plastic tub at the front of the store. I say optimistically because last winter temperatures plummeted, but I never saw so much as a flake fall from the sky. The rest of the store is stuffed to the gills with nuts, bolts, wrenches, and drills. There’s also a small corner display that I frequent often in my attempts to fix Chateau Morcelle’s many problems; it contains dust masks, safety glasses, respirators, and books on mitigating mold. As it turns out, chateau renovation is another thing that comes with a steep learning curve.

As usual, Hendra, who hasn’t really adapted to the modern world, charges right up to a girl sitting on a stool behind the counter. “Here me now!” she bellows. “We’ve got all kinds of problems with the eccentricity,” she shouts in really poor French.

“Electricity,” I correct.

“I’m sorry to hear about that, Sister,” the pale girl says, staring up out of large, protruding eyes. “I’ve got problems too. Things I need to confess.”

Hendra looks quite taken aback.

“You need to confess to a priest, not a nun,” I interject.

“I just love your accents, where did you say you’re from originally?” the girl asks.

“Wisconsin,” I say, right as Hendra answers, “California.”

“Both Wisconsin and California, we’ve lived in both places,” I say, trying to smooth over our lies.

“You Americans, you’re so odd.” The girl hops off her stool and calls a man named Maurice from the back of the store. He’s well-dressed, with khakis and a sport coat. Not what one would expect from an electrician.

“Sounds like you need immediate help,” Maurice says before pulling a calendar out of a wooden drawer underneath his cash register.

“Hmmm….” he moans, “Ummm-hummm,” he flips a page of the calendar turning it from September to October.

“Ooo, mais oui.” He picks up a bright red pen and I’m excited to see he’s about to circle a date when abruptly he returns to a positively Gallic chant of “mais no, hum, ummm.” With a beleaguered countenance, he flips the page on the calendar again.

“November?” I hazard.

He shakes his shaggy head, “
Il n’y a rien
,” he spits out.

“What do you mean there isn’t anything?” I ask. The man simply shrugs.

“I’m afraid I’m booked.” He flips another page. “Until after Christmas.”

Hendra’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. She is an elk in rut.

“That won’t do,” she insists and she and Maurice enter into the subtle and mysterious art of French negotiation. Well, Maurice negotiates. Hendra is Saxon; she’s used to brute force if she doesn’t get her way. While Maurice shrugs his shoulders, Hendra pounds her fist on the electrician’s countertop.

As they haggle over dates, or do a strange mating dance, or whatever it is that they are doing, I glance over at the pale girl, the one who wanted to confess. She’s watching Hendra intently, as if she has something bottled up inside her that needs to get out.

“I can do it after Christmas,” Maurice huffs.

“We’ll all freeze by then!” Hendra bellows.

Maurice considers this. “Beh, there is a solution. I shall send my nephew, Etienne. He’s a journeyman electrician. He’ll be there tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. sharp. You must feed him a large lunch, Madam. Wiring a decrepit chateau is hungry work.” Turning away in a gesture that means “that is that,” Maurice ambles off to the backroom. Schizophrenically, Hendra mumbles that Etienne must be a real slacker if he’s available so soon.

Does she want the electricity fixed or not?

Done with our business, we turn to leave and Hendra’s wide hips accidentally bump into a paint display sending color swatches crashing to the ground.

“Oh, so sorry,” Hendra mumbles.

“Oh no, don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.”

“That’s very kind of you…”

“Elise, my name is Elise.”

“That’s very kind of you, Elise,” Hendra says, and takes a step toward the door.

“Sister, please, if you have a moment, I need to talk,” the pale girl entreats again, quickly coming around the counter and blocking our exit. Hendra sidesteps her looking bewildered.

I mouth, “I’m so sorry” and point at my watch as if we have to be somewhere immediately. Overhead, the bell on the door tinkles pleasantly as Hendra and I exit the tiny shop onto the Rue des Halles.

“That was rude,” I admonish the plump witch a second later. Hendra ignores me and lifts the hem of her black robe, reaching down to pull up a sock, which by the look of things, has lost all its elasticity. No sooner does she pull it up taught around her thick calf then it immediately falls back down to the rim of her shoe. “Let her tell her troubles to one of those butchers at the hospital,” she says, giving up on the sock and straightening back up.

“A doctor?” I hazard, trying to figure out what she means by ‘butchers.’

“Yes, a doctor, butcher, whatever they’re called. You know they slice people up over there. They slice them up and then sew the pieces back together and some of them get better and some of them, of course, drop dead.”

I stare at her appalled. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” I begin but she waves me off.

“It is how it works.”

“I think maybe you should watch the reruns of Gray’s Anatomy on T.V.”

“T.V. is fiction, it’s all made up.” She waves me off.

“Besides,” Hendra says, returning us to topic. “I don’t have time to listen to some teenage complaint. That girl probably has a crush on a boy. Can you imagine? What would I know about that? Come on, Elfie, Hatha needs us, we’re leaving as soon as possible. Apparently, the ghost that haunts the Count is becoming more unruly. The fine lord needs a hand.”

“They’re not called ‘lord’ in modern day,” I sigh with regard to the Count, but it’s wasted on Hatha who stalks off up the Rue de Halles with manly strides.

I try to keep up with her in my wedge heels, all the while pondering the irony that, just last night, the head witch was arguing against intervention in such matters, and now we’re about to head out to chase ghosts at Chateau de Trisse. I don’t want to get into a long, drawn out discussion with the older, wiser witches, but I really don’t have time for any of this. I have to finish plumbing the downstairs bathroom. The chateau only has one working toilet and that’s just not enough for so many women. I decide to explain all this to Hendra as we walk along, but she simply grunts her reply.

Honestly, Saxons are so ill-tempered, I don’t even know why I bother.

*****

Even from afar, Chateau de Trisse looks haunted. I spy it between the poplar trees as we drive up in our Volkswagen minibus on a twisty road leading from the town of Chloret.

It’s been a long drive, and I continue to adjust my pencil skirt that’s been riding up ever since we left Amboise. I also straighten my frilly blouse. Despite being the home renovation expert (which I learned by watching shows that I live stream on the computer at the Amboise library), I am the most girly of the witches. I relish everything about modern French fashion –the clothes, the short pixie hair-cuts, and the make-up. Oh, the make-up! There’s so much of it, powders and liquids in all shapes and hues. Sometimes I put several colors on my eyelids all at once in bold streaks. They’re all so glittery, it takes my breath away when I look in the mirror. Hendra doesn’t like my eye makeup and even Hatha frowns. Noelle takes a more subtle approach, by pointing out that modern French women tend to stick to “one color.” But life is short. Tomorrow I could get zapped by master Merllyd and pulled back through the portal. So, if I want to wear strips of turquoise, chartreuse and flaming orange across my eyelids, I’m going to do it.

Abruptly, Hatha downshifts, and I’m flung so far forward in my seat my face hits the chair in front of me.

I have the utmost respect for Hatha. She is the head of our coven, but she is also a deplorable driver. The bus lurches and spurts as we turn into the chateau’s driveway. Behind us, I can see the automobile belch a huge amount of black smoke into the air.  Up in the driver’s seat, Hatha slips the Volkswagen into whatever gear fits her fancy and I long for the days when we travelled by horse.

“You cannot put it in first when you are driving along in fourth!” Hendra blusters, as Hatha does just this thing and the min-bus jerks especially hard for the second time in sixty seconds.

“You should talk,” sputters Monique sitting beside me, her pointed hat still thoroughly attached to her head even though the tip is squashed flat against the top of the bus. “I remember your first attempt at driving.” Monique snickers and Hendra grows silent. Hendra’s first attempt at driving left our small, newly purchased Citroen half-submerged in the river behind our house. Somehow, she didn’t get the concept of the brake. By the time she had made it half way across the lawn behind Chateau Morchelle, she had the Citroen up to 140 kilometers an hour. That’s when she hit a huge pile of dirt and the entire car went airborne. It was a surreal moment watching the automobile fly through the air. It made a tremendous splash when it hit the river and it was all we could do to pull Hendra to safety.

“I vote that Elfie drives on the way home,” Hendra says.

“I second it,” adds Monique.

“Oh, all right,” agrees Hatha, as we pull around to the front of the chateau.

“Holy hell,” Hendra murmurs..

“You can say that again,” Hatha concurs, as she slows the Volkswagen to a stop.

“Yes, yes, the whole place is most definitely cursed!” Monique shouts with sheer delight. “Come now ladies, why so glum, let us put it right. Perhaps that is our new purpose in life. Everything happens for a reason let us make the most of living in Trance.”

“France….it’s called France,” I mutter, but nobody is listening.