The Witches Three Cozy Mysteries 1-3

Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Only the powers that be know how long I stood there like that. Just gaping up at him. If I had been a computer, I'd have been one that needed its mouse jiggled to wake it back up.

But he didn't seem to notice either. The earbuds were hanging around his neck now, and he had pulled a hoodie on over the T-shirt he had been running in, but he clearly hadn't showered yet. His dark blond hair was drying in sweaty clumps that stuck out at all angles, but mostly straight up.

Messy as that hairstyle was at the moment, I felt a pang of familiarity. It was like all the boys back home had after they came home from the army, a soldier's cut that was just starting to grow out. Not long enough to comb flat, but too long to really be a buzz cut anymore.

"She's not a neighbor," the woman said, breaking the silence. Which was just as well; we couldn't stand there forever no matter how much I kind of wanted to.

I noticed the edge had gone out of her voice. Whoever this man was, the old woman was at least grudgingly fond of him.

"No, I'm not," I confirmed. "I'm just here for the weekend."

"Ah," he said, nodding and glancing back at the Queen Anne house. I doubted he had ever missed seeing it. "Well, even if just for the weekend, welcome to the neighborhood. I'm Nick Larson," he said, wiping his hand on his track pants before extending it to me. That must have done the trick; his hand in mine was warm but not sticky or slimy in the least.

"Amanda Clarke," I said. "Pleased to meet you."

"She's not from around here," the woman said. "Her manners are too good."

I felt my cheeks coloring. The corner of Nick's mouth lifted ever so slightly, and I knew he saw me turning pink, which promptly made me turn vividly red.

"Since she knows all about manners, I'm sure Ms. Olson has already introduced herself," he said.

"Mrs.," the woman swiftly corrected him.

"Of course," Nick said. "But is that Mrs. Frank Olson, or Mrs. Linda Olson? I can never remember which is correct."

Her mouth twisted as she fought the urge to smile at his gentle teasing. Once she had it under control, she said, "Mrs. Olson will be fine. I'm going in now; it's time for my show." She started to turn away but quickly looked back at me. "Mind the hostas."

I looked down at the toes of my high-top sneakers, still nowhere near her plants. When I looked up again, she was gone.

"She's interesting," I said. Nick looked at me closely, and I felt myself blushing again.

"Interesting," he said, but he wasn't repeating my assessment. He was making one of his own, about me.

"What?" I asked.

"You really mean that," he said. "I'm sure she harassed you from the minute she started speaking to you, but you don't call her an angry old bat or anything. And I can tell by looking at you that you really mean it."

"I don't think you can," I said, fighting the urge to cover my cheeks. "You don't know that."

"You weren't just being nice," he insisted. "You really didn't notice she was a complete shrew."

"Honestly!" I said. "I would never call someone I just met something like that."

Nick grinned. "In this case, it wouldn't be apt anyway," he said. "Linda has arthritis. Her whole body hurts her all the time, and it can make her terse or grumpy. But when she's feeling well, she's a treasure. Funny and charming, and she knows everything about the neighborhood. But you had no way of knowing that. This isn't one of her good days. You're just… kind."

"Oh, I…," I wanted to contradict him, but I couldn't put the words together. Didn't everyone try to be kind? Wasn't that the whole point of being around other people?

"So you're just here for the weekend," he said.

"Yes," I said. "I'm here to see Cynthia Thomas. Do you know her?"

"Maybe by sight, but not by name," Nick said. "I don't actually live here either. My grandfather has a condo in the building next door. He's not been feeling well this week, so I've been coming over to walk his dog Finnegan and help out with the housework."

"And yet you know Linda?" I said.

"Linda," Nick said with a conspiratorial grin, "makes sure she knows everyone. As you've just seen firsthand."

I smiled. She had indeed made sure I had noticed she was there, all but hidden behind her hedge.

"Well, if you're here all weekend, perhaps I'll see you again," he said, taking a few steps backward, toward a compact car parked in front of the condo building.

"I hope so," I said. "It was good meeting you."

That grin spread across his tanned face once more. "There's that sincerity again." Then he turned, opening the car doors with a double beep, and then he was gone.

I looked up at the building that was still looming over me, not exactly welcoming me in.

Well, at least it hadn't disappeared again.

I put my phone away then climbed the worn steps up to the porch. The air was even chillier here as if the sun never touched this place.

I had seen the house numbers from the street, faded though they had been by oxidization of the brass and what looked like decades-old soot from coal fires clinging to the brick.

What I had missed entirely was a smaller brass plaque just over the cracked doorbell button. I leaned down, then pulled the sleeve of my sweater down over my hand to rub at the plaque.

Briefly, the letters seemed to glow brighter, like the flaming letters on the ring in that Hobbit movie, before fading back to obscurity. I had just had time to read all the words before they were gone.

MISS ZENOBIA WEEKES' CHARM SCHOOL FOR EXCEPTIONAL YOUNG LADIES.

Not for the first time I had a feeling of unease, like a ghost passing through me. Why was I here, really? Why me? No one looked at me and thought “charm school.”

I hadn't extended a finger to press the doorbell or raised a hand to grasp the heavy knocker ring that hung on the center of the door. I might even have been thinking seriously of walking back down those steps and all the way back home.

But the door opened with an anguished groaggn, and there was Cynthia Thomas in a silver cashmere sweater I was sure cost more than I made in a year over shiny black trousers. A beautiful silver locket hung from her neck, as quietly elegant as the rest of her.

"Ah, Amanda Clarke," she said with a smile. "So good to see you again. Please, step inside. And welcome to Charm School."

As I stepped through the doorway into the front hall, I felt a little shiver dance over the back of my neck. It wasn't a chill; it was warmer inside the house than on the sunless porch. It was something else. Something that made all the little hairs at the nape of my neck rise up at once. The swing of my ponytail tickled my suddenly sensitive skin.

"Everything all right?" Cynthia asked me with a little frown.

"Yes, I'm fine," I said, rubbing at the back of my neck until the shivery feeling went away. Cynthia continued to look at me intently, the little furrow between her eyebrows deepening. "Really, I'm fine," I said again. "When you said this place was a school, this really wasn't what I was expecting."

"I suppose calling it a school is more by way of an honorific," Cynthia said, indicating I should go through an open set of French doors to a sunny room to the left. "The girls who were her students attended other schools for academics. Miss Zenobia just guided us in the final polish, as it were."

"Oh, you were a student?" I said.

"Once upon a time," Cynthia said with a soft smile. The room we were standing in was what I believed you called a parlor: chairs, a love seat, and a sofa huddled close around a fireplace. Ideal for cozy conversation, with no television in sight anywhere.

"If you were a student, why am I here?" I asked. “I know you said she had no family, but surely you being an actual student trumps me being a former student’s daughter. Why aren't you Miss Zenobia's successor or whatever?”

"That's complicated," Cynthia said, folding her hands together and summoning another smile. "I really don't want to go too deeply into it. The others haven't yet arrived, and they will doubtless have questions as well. No, I'd prefer to take all of your inquiries at once, after the reading of the will. It will make more sense then, I promise you."

"Okay," I agreed, twisting the handles of my bag in my hands. I was afraid to sit on any of the furniture. It was all in excellent condition, the wood gleaming from a recent polishing, the bright sapphire color of the upholstery not the least faded despite the sunbeams crisscrossing over them. But they were all clearly old. Old and expensive.

Somewhere further in the depths of the house, a door opened then closed. Cynthia lifted a finger to beg my indulgence then poked her head back out into the hall.

"I say, Mr. Trevor? I wonder if I might detain you for a moment?"

"Always at your disposal, Mrs. Thomas," a warm male voice answered. A gray-haired man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in dark slacks, button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and sweater vest that appeared to be hand knit. It was pretty far from any sort of uniform, but something about his posture in the doorway screamed "butler."

"Mr. Trevor," Cynthia said, "May I present Miss Amanda Clarke."

"Miss Amanda,” he said, taking my hand in both of his and clasping it tightly as he shook it. He looked me over again and again. "You look just like her. It's uncanny."

"You knew my mother?" I guessed.

"Only from photos, but I know Miss Zenobia had a special place in her heart for your mother," he said, and a sadness passed over his face. "A tale for another time, perhaps," he said with a glance at Cynthia.

"It will be easier to tell such stories when everyone has gathered," she said.

"How many others are coming?" I asked.

"Only two," Cynthia said. "You three are the only remaining descendants of the last class."

"Really?" I asked.

"Miss Zenobia took fewer and fewer students near the end," Mr. Trevor said.

"Less call for charm in these modern times," Cynthia said. I sensed she was diverting me from asking more questions. Indeed I had a million of them, not the least being what Mr. Trevor meant by "near the end." My mother would have been a student more than twentyfive years ago, and Miss Zenobia had died only the month before. How old had she been?

Mr. Trevor seemed to notice the bag in my hand for the first time. "Shall I show Miss Amanda to her room?" he asked.

"Yes, lovely," Cynthia said. "Do give her the full tour. With all appropriate warnings," she added.

"Warnings?" I asked. "What sort of warnings?" I supposed a building as old as the one I was standing in presented all sorts of hazards, fussy heating elements with the potential to cause fires or tricky electrical switches or something.

At least, that's what I told myself would need a warning. The less logical part of my brain was convinced the building was haunted, and the warnings would be which hallways never to go down after dark, or locked rooms better left undisturbed.

That shiver started to ripple up the back of my neck again. I was a bit too exuberant clapping a hand over it this time. The loud slap echoed through the parlor, and both Mr. Trevor and Cynthia gave me quizzical looks.

"Mosquito?" I offered.

"A little late in the year for those," Cynthia said. "We had a frost a few nights ago."

"We did, they didn't," Mr. Trevor murmured, then added more loudly, "And some of the screens do need mending. Come, Miss Amanda. You've seen the parlor. Allow me to show you the rest of the school."

"That would be lovely," I said, hoisting my bag back over my shoulder, but carefully. Every table and shelf and fireplace mantle around me was covered in an array of small, breakable objects, any one of which was surely worth more than I made in a month even with tips.

I would have to keep the flailing to a minimum if I felt that chill running up my spine again.