Beewitched Read online

  “Bees are fascinating,” Dy said. “They’re an important part of the natural world, and I’m all about nature.”

  Any doubts I’d had about her slipped away. I liked this woman already.

  “So,” I said to my new friend Dy, “I can’t help noticing you have a wand.”

  That might have sounded a bit blunt, but I couldn’t think of a subtle way to bring it up. I mean, really? I’ve never seen a magic wand except in movies. A real honest-to-goodness wand up close? It had never happened, until now.

  “I’m casting a protection spell,” she told me. “Making sure demons stay outside of my new home. A properly executed spell keeps them at bay.” She raised her wand and pointed it at my house, exactly like a musical conductor during a symphony orchestra performance. “Want me to do one on yours?”

  I glanced over at my yellow Victorian with its white trim work and realized that Dy was too late. The demon was already inside, staring at us out the window. At least she was more pesky than dangerous. Patti ducked out of sight when we turned our attention her way, and even at a distance and through the sun’s reflecting glare on the pane, I had been able to tell how afraid she was.

  “I’ll take a rain check, but thanks for the offer,” I said to my new neighbor, getting ready to pry. “So, where are you from?”

  “Milwaukee,” she said. “The east side.” No surprise there. That’s where most of the alternative lifestyles happen in the southeastern corner of our state. The university located there draws a lot of unique personalities.

  “My old stomping ground,” I told her, having a pleasant flashback—a bar on almost every corner, ethnic food from around the world, and strange and interesting people. All kinds of diversity, including witches and warlocks.

  Moraine might be no more than forty miles from Milwaukee, but the two places are Great Lakes apart. Not physically, but socially. Here in my town, wearing a nose ring is considered over-the-top. Tattoos are only okay if they’re associated with veterans of a U.S.-supported war, or Harley Davidson, which Wisconsin is darn proud to call our own, so if a person wants to wear that fact permanently dyed in his or her skin, so be it.

  “Hey, Greg,” Dy called out to the hot guy. “Why don’t you take a break?” Then to me, “I couldn’t have done this move without Greg’s support.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No, he just offered to help me get settled.”

  “Wow! I wish my friends looked like that!” I blurted out, a trait that runs in my family, one that I’m trying to control. My mother has the same problem, only her blurts come off as mean and insensitive. Mine are dopier. Either way, thoughtless or awkward, blurts aren’t usually a wise thing.

  Dy laughed at my reaction, though. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  I wanted to ask if he was a warlock but decided to save that for another time. Actually, now that I thought about it, he couldn’t be, because he was manually transferring her personal items from the truck to the house with no sorcery involved at all.

  Listen to me, acting like I believe in those kinds of things—witches and wizards and magic. Which I don’t. Not at all . . . uh . . . okay, I do have some doubts, but they’re very small ones. Barely ripples in a sea of wonder.

  Up close, Greg had dark, lively eyes, bulging muscles, and jeans so tight I could pretty much guess his private measurements. It was all I could do to keep my eyes above his waist.

  “Are you from Milwaukee, too?” I asked Greg.

  He nodded. “Yup. Brewskis, Brewers, you bet.” He smiled. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  I took a good long look. Nothing. “Uh . . .”

  “I’m Greg Mason, Al Mason’s son. You know, from Country Delight Farm?”

  He waited for my reaction.

  But the Greg Mason I remembered was gawky, skinny as a skeleton with thick glasses and lots of pimples. When his parents divorced, he left to live with his mother. How far back was that? Maybe when we were thirteen or fourteen. What a difference contacts and access to a fitness club can make for a person!

  “It’s been a long time,” I said, laughing lightly. “You’ve changed.”

  “So have you,” he said, with the same implied meaning—For the better. “Besides offering Dy my brawn, I’m helping my dad finish putting in this year’s corn maze.”

  Dy gave him a warm smile. “When Greg showed me his dad’s farm a few months ago, I just fell in love with the area. Then this house came up on my radar, and here I am.”

  “Touring the farm would convince anyone that this is the place to live,” I said, meaning every word of it. Country Delight Farm is just outside the Moraine town limits, but we still consider it one of our own pride and joys.

  The farm was fun to visit year-round, but it really shone in the autumn. It consisted of an enormous apple orchard with a variety of apples, a pumpkin patch, a petting zoo, a corn maze redesigned each year, and an open-air market featuring seasonal goodies like apple cider and caramel apples and fall decorations for the home. Smart businessman that Al is, last year he added a stand in the center of town, selling cider and apples and corn on the cob, and it’s been a big hit with both visitors and locals.

  “I didn’t know you’d bought the house,” I told Dy, “or I would have put together a welcome basket.”

  “Thanks for the thought,” she said, “but the whole move was rather spur-of-the-moment.”

  Greg joined in. “Dy is actually just renting with an option to buy,” he told me. “You’ll have to convince her to exercise that option.”

  “We’ll see.” Dy tucked her wand into a hidden deep pocket in her skirt.

  While Greg went back to moving things inside, I gave Dy a little info about Moraine, like how Stu’s Bar and Grill is the local watering hole, to make sure to stop on Main for frozen custard at Koon’s Custard Shop, where to find our cozy library, and of course about The Wild Clover.

  “Stop in the store when you want a tour. You can’t miss it,” I told her. “Just look for a converted church with a blue awning. If you end up walking past the old cemetery, you’ve gone too far.”

  Dy grinned. “Main Street is about the equivalent of three city blocks. I doubt I’ll have any trouble finding your store.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “Well, welcome again. And please let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  By the time I returned to the kitchen, Patti was a blubbering mess. “Did you see her try to zap me?” she practically yelled. “Mind control with that stupid wand of hers, that’s what she’s up to, mark my word. We have to get rid of her before it’s too late, before something really bad happens.”

  I’d had enough of Patti’s blather. “Like what could happen? Monsters coming out of the river? Demons knocking on your door? Get real.”

  “Where there’s one, there are more.”

  “That’s in reference to mice, Patti, not witches. Besides, she’s really nice. Her name is Dy, short for Dyanna. The guy helping her move in is Greg, and he used to be a local. His dad owns Country Delight Farm.”

  “This can’t be happening!”

  “Keep your voice down. She’ll hear you through the screen door.” I closed the inner door. “You’re way overreacting. Dy was perfectly friendly and normal.”

  Patti grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes. “She already got to you, didn’t she?”

  “Believe what you want. I like her. And Greg is nice and normal, too.”

  “An entire coven, I bet! Like I said, there’s always more than one.”

  “If that guy is your example of a typical warlock, count me in.” I broke free from Patti’s grip.

  “I’m telling Hunter,” she said, threatening to tattle. “He’s not going to like this at all.”

  I gave her an I don’t care what you do shrug. Hun
ter wouldn’t mind. We’ve known each other since both of us were in diapers (well, maybe not quite that long) and our current relationship is based on trust. I might tell him a fib here and there to protect someone, or sometimes to protect him or his position as a Waukesha detective, or to save myself unnecessary grief, but that’s the extent of it.

  Neither of us would ever, ever consider being unfaithful. Never, ever. It’s one thing to look, but “hands off” is our shared and most important rule, especially now that we’re living together and have committed to a monogamous relationship. Six-packs and quads and all that are nice to view, but give me a capable man with a sense of humor and integrity, like Hunter, and I’m totally turned on. He also has a great smile and sexy feet (a small fetish of mine).

  Part of our success as a couple is because of our career choices. Hunter is a detective and a member of the Critical Incident Team. The C.I.T. handles all things in the county beyond the call of the average cop. Hunter is also head of the K-9 division. His partner is Ben, a Belgian Malinois with jaws of steel and a mind as fine as (or finer than) most humans’. I used to be afraid of dogs, but Ben has changed my attitude.

  Hunter’s law enforcement work keeps him intensely focused and extremely busy, and owning the grocery store and bee business has me jumping through my own hoops, so we have plenty of time to actually miss each other. Therefore, we cherish every minute we can find to be together. Absence making the heart grow fonder really works for us.

  “Are you paying attention to what I just said?” Patti asked in her whiny voice, and the big, strong image of Hunter evaporated from my mind as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “We have to remove that woman from our block ASAP.”

  “Don’t look at me.” She was glaring, actually. “I’m staying neutral.”

  “You have to help out,” Patti said, replacing her glare with a pout. “You’re directly in the cross fire between her house and mine, right in the middle, and that’s a bad place to be. But if we work as a team, we will eliminate the threat faster and more efficiently.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m not participating in any bullying tactics. And I’m going to make sure you don’t, either. You certainly aren’t the welcome wagon.”

  I refrained from mentioning that Dy was renting, and so didn’t have her whole financial future wrapped up in staying permanently in Moraine. That would have just encouraged Patti even more. “Until you settle down,” I told her with as much authority as I could, “stay away from our new neighbor.”

  “You’re openly declaring war, then!”

  What? War? I was pretty sure I was attempting to declare peace. “We can all get along,” I insisted.

  “She’s got you under a spell of some sort, that’s what’s happened. Incredible. You never should have gone over there without brass. Now look at you.” Patti stared at me and I could almost hear the paranoid wheels turning in her head. Then she said, “We’ll have to remove you from her influence. Stash you someplace safe until this is over. Or until I can figure out how to remove the curse she’s cast on you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” But I did feel a little fuzzy-headed, now that Patti mentioned spells and all. I shook it off and held firm. “I’m not going anyplace.”

  “Then consider me gone until this is over. If you won’t cooperate, I have no choice but to leave you behind where you might possibly suffer even more harm. Be warned.”

  After staring into my eyes and seeing my strong resistance, Patti made sure the coast was clear before opening the inner door. She let the screen door slam behind her.

  She had to be kidding, right?

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t. I’ve known her long enough. Patti’s nuts, but she rarely kids around. I would probably have a hard time coming up with five fingers’ worth of times she’d joked around. And come to think of it, she wasn’t good at it the few times she’d tried.

  Now she was mad. Great—without intending to, I’d managed to tick off a neighbor anyway. Although if anyone was going to snub me, I’d pick P. P. Patti any day. Hunter would be thrilled to find out about our disagreement and parting of the way. He thought she was a rabid rabble-rouser, a menace to society, and a big gossip. All true, I’m afraid.

  I had to tell my sister, Holly, about the new neighbor and her hot guy friend. Holly is happily married, but she likes to look, too. I pulled out my cell phone, then remembered that Holly was working at The Wild Clover, and I was due to take over for her.

  Before I left, I walked out into the beeyard to check on my honeybees. When a beekeeper is doing her job well, she should be intuitively aware of the smallest changes within the colonies, because any variance from the norm could spell trouble.

  And I was witnessing a change, all right. Something was off.

  On a routine morning when a honeybee leaves the hive to forage, she flies away at a predetermined angle, gaining whatever altitude her little radar determines. That is her natural flight pattern. Others join her, and they fly off in a line. An honest-to-goodness beeline.

  Lori Spandle’s last town hall argument against neighborhood hives was based on the false premise that honeybees will fly fast and low, zinging and zapping right into our residents’ faces and stinging them to death. Her outrageous claim didn’t hold up once I invited the entire town board over for a demonstration. Lori’s no-buzz-zone attempt ended up in ruins. Instead the town implemented a honeybee free-flight zone.

  Anyway, several of my honeybees’ well-established flight patterns were over the house next door.

  Today, with the witch moving in, not a single honeybee was flying in the direction of her house. They were all taking alternate routes.

  What the heck did that mean?

  Two

  When I arrived at The Wild Clover, Aurora Tyler, my gardening center neighbor, was at the checkout counter with a small shopping basket filled with her usual—tofu, soy milk, granola, grapes, and lots of dark green leafy vegetables. She wore a loose-fitting forest green sundress and had let her dark hair, which she usually wore in a ponytail, cascade loose for today. She reminded me of a woodland fairy.

  “I like your hair that way,” I told her.

  “Thanks. Something weird is going on in the atmosphere,” Aurora said, her voice all whispery and filled with awe. “Whatever it is, it’s making me feel breezy and extra feminine. I just had to put on a dress, let my hair down, and then I got a craving for a spinach smoothie with grapes and tofu, and I practically danced down here for the ingredients.”

  I smiled, thinking about The Wild Clover’s customers and how much effort I put into satisfying their every need and want. I’m proud that I’ve established a business rapport with the local farmers, stocking my shelves with their products as well as other Wisconsin products, like cranberry items from the northern part of the state, wines and cherries from Door County, award-winning cheeses from every corner of our state, and soy products we produce right here in our farm fields where we alternate annually between soy and corn to keep the soil at maximum richness. And of course, the shelves are well stocked with my very own special honey creations—honey in all its glorious forms: combs, creamed, raw, sticks, and now I’ve been expanding into candles, soaps, and lip balms created in my backyard honey house.

  “Wish I felt like dancing,” I said to her. “Right now I feel weighed down and stressed out.” Conflicts like the one with Patti did that to me. Our confrontation over the neighbor had really messed up my psyche and left me feeling unbalanced.

  My sister, Holly, bounced toward me from her station behind the register where she’d been in the middle of checking out Aurora. “Your turn,” she said, looking as breezy as Aurora with not a single care in Holly world. “I know I owed you this early morning shift, but never, ever in the future will I agree to work before eleven again.”

  My sister is the antith
esis of a workaholic. The only two reasons she shows up (and, trust me, that’s not too often) are because, one: she owns a piece of the store, and two: I manipulate her either by way of guilt trips or else I play the sister-needs-you card like I did yesterday. Or, one more reason: Mom makes her.

  What works the best is threatening to make her help out in the apiary. She’s deathly afraid of bees, which is almost beyond my mental ability to grasp. Yellow jackets I can understand, but honeybees? Really, they are so industrious they don’t even notice people unless we intentionally try to hurt them or their queen. Otherwise, they’re perfectly harmless. But just try telling Holly that.

  “I’ve got to take off.” She tried to brush past me, and we did a little jostling, which she won as usual, making me wish for the umpteenth time that I’d wrestled in high school like she had. My sister knew all the moves. “Business is slow right now anyway,” she said, heading toward the back door, “so you can handle it alone. Mom needs my advice on picking out flowers for the wedding.”

  “Wait just one minute.” I hustled over in time to block her path (like that would actually stop her). “Hold on.” Then to Aurora, “Can you wait just one second?”

  “Shopping here is always an experience,” Aurora said, all dreamy. “I enjoy finding out what the Fischer sisters are up to. Take your time.”

  Holly turned to face me. My sister and I are both on the tall side, with hazel eyes and light brown hair, or dark blond, depending on who’s doing the describing. And I like to think we were both gifted with our father’s athletic skills. Holly with her wrestling in high school, back then taking her competition to the mat, and these days occasionally finding a use for her skills off the mat. She’s a takedown artist when she needs to be. Shoplifters beware!