Magic & Mistletoe, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 2 Page 7

  “You’re certain you had nothing to do with Sean O’Reilly’s death?” Jones says.

  Dad gives an exasperated shake of his head. “Come on, Landon. You know me. We worked together for years. I would never hurt anybody.”

  Jones puts his hands on his belt buckle, looking all the world like a big city police officer chasing down his prey with skill. “Evidence says differently.”

  “What evidence?” I demand. My voice echoes across the lawn.

  From behind me, Mama calls my name. I wave her off.

  With a gloved hand, the coroner carefully takes Sean’s chin and forces the man’s mouth open. “It appears the victim may have choked to death. I can’t make an official cause yet, but I did find something lodged in his throat.”

  Jones points inside Sean’s mouth with a penlight. “The doctor got a grip on it, pulled it out. Take a look and tell me what you see.”

  Dad and I lean closer, peering into the space. Another chill races down my spine when I recognize what’s lying on Sean’s tongue.

  “What is it?” Mama calls.

  “Oh Daddy,” I murmur, heart sinking.

  Dad straightens and rubs a hand over his face. “Landon, I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with this.”

  Detective Jones scans the yard and crowd, then lowers his voice as he pressures Dad with his confident gaze. “Then why was your guitar pick shoved down this man’s throat?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Maybe he tripped and choked on it accidentally,” I theorize. At the same time, I scan for Sean’s ghost, or the one attached to him the previous night. “Did anybody see my father choke the poor guy? Of course not. You’re jumping to horrible conclusions!”

  No apparitions appear, and I’m unsure whether I should be glad or disappointed. I eye the silent cat gargoyles on the porch railings, along with the matching door knocker—all of whom are usually quite talkative and love to tattle on people.

  Deathly silence meets my ears, all three inanimate and quiet.

  Detective Jones does not appreciate my opinion, as evidenced by his tone. “There are no witnesses…yet.”

  “So, you’re conjecturing that my dad not only shoved that down Sean’s throat, but that he did it on my front lawn, out in public, and left an obvious calling card to the crime?” I lean in and glare at the detective. “You know in this town that would never work. Someone would see the perpetrator.”

  Jones scowls. The corner of Dad’s mouth quirks. “She’s got you there, Landon.”

  “This was no accident,” he argues.

  “If it’s a homicide, someone is framing my father for it, and doing a poor job at that.”

  Jones shifts his focus to Dad. “I have to cover every angle, and things don’t look good for you, Nash.”

  I throw my hands up, exasperated. “He didn’t do it!”

  Dad grabs my arms and ushers me a few feet away. “It’s okay, Ava. I know how to handle this.”

  The next few minutes go by in a blur. Jones compels my father into his squad car to take him to the station for a formal statement. Logan plants a kiss on my forehead and tells me not to worry. He dashes across the street to jump in his Porsche and follow them.

  The coroner loads the body into his van; the EMTs leave at the same time.

  The excitement over, the gathered crowd disperses like a slow leaking faucet. A few wave and nod before wandering off. Others side-eye us and converse in hushed gossip as they fade into the shadows of other homes.

  Mama is devastated. Rosie and I escort her around the cordoned off scene and get her inside. She cries softly, sitting at my kitchen table, and I think about all she’s lost lately. Rosie places her tote with Fern in it at her desk, then fills the kettle with water. I rummage in the cupboard for teabags. Tabby saunters in, sniffs at Mama, and bails.

  The doorbell rings and Rosie and I exchange a glance. “I’ll see who it is,” she says.

  As I settle on a chamomile and lemon balm blend, I hear her heave an annoyed sigh. “I don’t believe this.”

  Leaving the box of tea open on the counter, I lean to see who it is.

  Thornhollow’s only two reporters have arrived. One is on the porch, trying to talk Rosie into opening the door. A flash of light behind him illuminates the other who is snapping pictures of the lawn, the yellow tape, and the Christmas display.

  Through the glass, Rosie gives our visitor a piece of her mind. He argues that he knows Dad is in town, that he and Sean had words over Mama. He wants a quote for the morning paper.

  Words over Mama? At lunch?

  I sink into the door frame as the reporter rattles on, wondering if my father has inadvertently sealed his own fate.

  We don’t have a blind to pull down, and I make a mental note to get one. Even as Rosie stomps away, he keeps tapping his pen on the glass and yelling questions at her.

  The kettle whistles. At the stove, I switch it off and Rosie returns, mumbling under her breath about manners. She stands next to me as I pour the water in the cup and hisses, “Can you believe the audacity?”

  “They’re reporters.” I dunk the bag up and down in the steaming liquid, letting the scent calm my nerves. “Takes a lot to do their job in a small town like this.”

  “Did you hear what he was saying?” Her dark eyes are livid. “About two murders in three months and both having ties to you and your family? It was as if you personally have something to do with all of this!”

  Mama sobs louder and I add an ice cube to cool the drink. It gives me a moment to decide how to respond, because in all honesty, the reporter is right—Thornhollow is no big city and crime is rare. I don’t know when the last murder occurred, but I’m guessing long before I was born.

  I set the cup on the table and motion for Mama to drink. The tapping has quit and I peek to see the reporters have left. Probably headed to the station to see if they can get Jones to give them something for the record. “Go home, Rosie. It’s late and there’s nothing else you can do.”

  “Are you sure?” She rubs my back. “I can stay if you want. I don’t mind.”

  A few more reassurances and she and Fern leave.

  I pace as Mama plays with her cup. She doesn’t look up when she says, “Sean and your Dad fought all the time.”

  I stop and lean on the counter, my stomach twisting. “About what?”

  She runs a finger around the rim, takes a sip. “Do you think your Dad could be jealous of Sean? Enough to…you know.”

  I grip my hands together, feeling the urge to strangle her. I need to get out to the front porch and question the gargoyles. “Daddy did not kill him, Mama. I can’t believe you would think that.”

  “I don’t,” she admits. Her shoulders shake as she begins crying again. “But it does look bad, Ava. What are we going to do?”

  I tap my fingers, watching Arthur and Lancelot stroll in. They roam in search of food, giving Mama a wide berth. They’re not whining like normal, as if sensing something’s wrong, but I probably should feed the poor cats anyway.

  In the pantry, I pull out the dry food, then shake some into each of their bowls as well as Tabitha’s. She appears in a cloud of fluff and all three descend on it with gusto. Their dinner is gone in seconds.

  “We don’t know for sure he was killed,” I state. “Detective Jones might know what he’s doing, but there could be various reasons Sean died on the front lawn.”

  Mama glances up with equal amounts of hope and disbelief. “An accident?”

  I return the bag to the pantry and close the door, watching the cats clean their faces. “It’s possible.”

  “What about the guitar pick?”

  “I don’t know why he had one of Dad's business cards in his mouth, but maybe he was chewing on it. Like a nervous habit or something. Remember when I would do that to pencil erasers in fifth grade? Drove you nuts.”

  She nods, taking another sip.

  “Did you by chance ever see him chewing on random things like that?”
/>
  Her cup claps on the table as she sets it down, face scrunching in determination. “Not that I recall. He took a lot of antacids. Said his stomach was a mess.”

  That can happen when you live on alcohol. “He could have tripped and fell and it went down his throat.”

  The hope in Mama’s eyes fades. “I suppose that’s one possibility.” She shrugs. “It’s pretty weak, though.”

  “Well, if he was murdered, it wasn’t Daddy, and we’ll figure out who’s framing him for it.”

  Queenie arrives, blustering past me when I open the door and heading straight for Mama. It’s like she has radar and the two friends share a long hug.

  At the same time, the ghost from the library materializes near the mudroom. The cats jump but the women don’t notice.

  “Interesting,” he says, eyeing the decor and floating past us, out of the kitchen, and vanishing up the stairs.

  “Don’t you worry,” Queenie insists to Mama. “Not for one minute. Everything’s gonna work out fine.”

  I’m reminded of what my father said to me. “Everything’s going to be okay, sweetie. The most important thing is that you know I love you.”

  It’s not reassuring.

  Still holding onto my mother, Queenie looks me over. “Your Daddy got a lawyer?”

  I nod. “Logan.”

  “Good. I’m gonna take your Mama home, put her to bed. You okay?”

  “Sure, I’m fine,” I lie.

  I see the two out, wait until they’ve disappeared and question the inanimate felines on the porch.

  “You saw what happened. Tell me.”

  Gold eyes turn to me. “He wasn’t killed,” the door knocker says.

  “But he’s dead. Did he choke on the pick accidentally?”

  “It was no accident,” one of the porch cats purrs.

  “How is that possible?”

  The matching gargoyle yawns. “Humans are so dense.”

  “My dad could be in serious danger,” I tell them. “If you can shed light on what happened, please do so.”

  “Your dad is innocent,” Door knocker states.

  “I’m aware of that. Who’s guilty?”

  “No one,” the twin gargoyles sing-song.

  They talk in circles for another minute and I give up.

  Inside, the bag with the hex box and the other items sits forgotten on the kitchen counter. I toy with it and wonder if I’m the one who’s cursed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When I search the cabinets for Aunt Willa’s secret stash of brandy, I come up empty, but Rhys arrives, letting himself in through the mudroom door.

  He hugs me tight and sets me back a foot. “You look like death warmed over.”

  The ghost drifts past the open doorway. I want to question him about what he’s doing here, see if he can find out if Sean’s around, but Brax arrives on Rhys’ heels.

  I pull out the opened wine bottle from the previous night as I recite what I know. Brax rolls his eyes at the wine and goes straight to the high cabinet above the fridge. There he removes the brandy. We sit at the table, discussing the incident, and the warm liquor and their company helps calm my nerves.

  “Tell me about Haylee Dean Bower,” I say. “Any idea where she was earlier this evening?”

  Both men give me an odd look.

  I raise my hands in a ‘what’ gesture.

  “The Toad at one point,” Rhys says, “but I don’t remember the exact time. Why?”

  “You told me she was Sean’s girlfriend. He was also dating my mother. A woman scorned, seeking revenge, and who knows…?”

  They glance at each other. Brax refills my glass. “I just came from there and didn’t see her.”

  I don’t drink the second shot, shoving it back. “I’m gonna find and question her.”

  Rhys plants his hands on the table and rises. “I’ll drive. You’ve had a rough day, and we all know you and brandy don’t mix.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I am, too.

  “I’m still going with you,” he insists.

  Brax apologizes that he can’t. He needs to return to work. Not only do the partners own the Thorny Toad and the B&B, Brax has a coffee bar next to his mama’s diner that serves alcohol in the evenings.

  He kisses my cheek and I hug him before he leaves.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” Rhys asks.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “No wonder you’re so peaked.” He opens the fridge and withdraws the box of leftover pizza. “Perfect. I love Vinnie’s.”

  He puts a slice on a plate and pours me a glass of sweet tea. “Eat.”

  “I can’t.”

  Grabbing a scratchpad and pen from the junk drawer, he sits across from me. “Yes, you can. Let’s make a list of people to talk to if we can’t find her. We need a plan.”

  He’s right. I’m about to bite into my slice when Persephone pops in. The angelic guardian angel may be a bigger pain in my backside than the cat.

  Tonight, she appears in a rainbow handkerchief dress, a large sapphire ring on her index finger, and her hair done in a cascade of braids. I’m not sure what fashion statement she’s going for, but it almost hurts to look at it.

  At least with her, I can have a conversation, and she’s been helpful with previous issues. “Where have you been?”

  She lifts a single brow and sniffs at the food. “You’re not my only charge, you know.”

  “I’m in real trouble here and I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  Rhys’ head swivels to the place I’m glaring at. He can’t see her, but he knows about my abilities and accepts them. “Is it that gal who dresses like Endora from Bewitched?”

  That is the fashion statement Persephone prefers. I nod. “I could use some insight,” I say to her. “I have a lot of questions that need answering.”

  She gives me an impatient look but before she can respond, Sherlock materializes next to her.

  She startles, and he, too, looks surprised. He adjusts his spectacles to take her in. “Madam.”

  Her eyes shoot daggers at me. “Who is this?”

  From what I’ve learned, guardian angels don’t know everything. “Never mind about him. Are you here to help me or not?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “You picked up a ghost hitchhiker?”

  “Well, it’s not like you were hanging around, protecting me from him.”

  “I’m a crack detective,” Sherlock states, looking down his nose at her, “and have offered my services to young Ava.”

  “I bet you have.” Her mouth screws up and she taps a finger against her arm. “You know I can’t give you answers to certain questions,” she relents to me, “but I’ll do what I can to point you in the right direction.”

  It’s the best I can get from her, and I’m desperate enough that I’ll take it.

  I tell Rhys about her, Sherlock, the necklace in the box, and eat all at the same time.

  Persephone and Sherlock dance around each other, like a couple of dogs sniffing their territory. Persephone grows interested in the hex box as I show it to Rhys. “This is probably the biggest thing I have to deal with and I’m running out of time, but tonight, I have to figure out how to help Dad.”

  All three nod their understanding. Rhys watches as I return the box to the bag. “We should start with Reverend Stout. Maybe he can tell us where to find Haylee, and I know if Brax sees her he’ll text and let us know where she is.”

  I gather my coat and purse, eye the last shot of brandy but resist.

  Outside, Rhys hops in the passenger seat of my car. Tabby, Persephone, and Sherlock climb in back.

  Reverend Stout’s home is a beautiful old Victorian. The doorbell makes a resounding bing bong when we arrive.

  The Reverend and his wife have modest holiday decorations, mostly focused on the birth of Jesus. Removing the reading glasses from the end of his nose, he appears mildly surprised to see Rhys and I standing on his front porch. “Ava, Rhys
, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  He’s in sweatpants and a cheerful red and green sweater. Usually, he’s in a black suit, or, when on the ambulance crew—his second job—a white shirt and blue pants.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in such casual attire. “We’re so sorry to bother you this evening, but we’re looking for your niece, Haylee Dean.”

  He motions us to step inside and we do, Rhys closing the door behind us. “Does this have something to do with Sean O’Reilly’s death?”

  He’s already heard. The news must be all over town by now. “I understand she and Sean have been seeing each other.”

  He uses his glasses to point to a room on the right. “Why don’t you come on in?”

  Rhys and I follow him into a quaint den with stacks of books on the table. One lies open waiting for him to return to it. A gorgeous Tiffany-style lamp makes the room glow, and I see touches of his wife’s personality throughout. She loves to knit and do other crafts, and there are doilies on every upholstered surface, a knitted Afghan on the couch. Pictures of them from their married life rest on a nearby table, and she has a macramé pot hanger in a corner with a philodendron. The big leaves cascade to the floor.

  There’s a discreet Christmas tree opposite the sofa, and I see handmade ornaments on it. They make me smile.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a close relationship with her,” he tells us. “My sister’s kid. Haylee was always a rebel, much like her mother. When she got old enough, she traveled a lot, hung out with bands and did something the kids call couch surfing, I think? Never had a close relationship with our Lord.”

  “Is it possible she was a groupie for my Dad's band?”

  He toys with the glasses. “She played percussion in high school and believed she was meant to be a country star. Wrote her own songs, tried recording a few.” He looks wistfully at the table with the family pictures arranged on it. “When she graduated, she took off for Nashville, said she’d never set foot in this town again. She ended up back here about three months later, and eventually persuaded your father to let her in his band. I believe it had something to do with Sean. She fell pretty hard for him.”