Witch Ways (24 page)

On our way down Elm Street, I asked, “So, what made you decide to fall for Janette?”

He raised his eyebrows. “The baked goods?”

I shook my head. “Lame answer. She’s been bringing us treats for years and you’ve never really seen her as anything other than a friendly neighbor until now.”

Uncle Mitch slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what changed. One day she was the neighbor lady, and the next day . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked at the scones. “I thought you were going to give those to Josh so he could try and mend fences with Dylan.”

“I decided that was dumb.”

“You’re not trying to win some guy through his belly, are you? Because if you are, you should know buying someone’s affection almost never works.”

“You’re not really one to throw pastries, Uncle Mitch, but since you asked—these cupcakes are trying to do just the opposite.” I glanced down at them. “Besides, they’re scones, not cupcakes. I’m going to tell Dylan I’m not interested in him, and I’m hoping the scones will soften the blow.”

Uncle Mitch looked skeptical, as well he should. If he knew about the spell I put on the scones, he’d probably laugh—right before he launched into a lecture about malarkey and hogwash.

I tightened my grip on the plate and mentally rehearsed the things I wanted to say to Dylan while Uncle Mitch yammered on about hormones and mate selection.

I climbed out of the Thunderbird, carefully balancing the plate of scones on top of the scrapbooks. Opening the front gate, I made my way down the walk, but my steps faltered when I spotted a familiar dirt bike propped up against a maple tree.

What was Josh doing here? After last night, it was hard to imagine Dylan and Josh were still speaking, let alone friends. I never really got guys. They were different from girls. Girls could be mean, and they would simmer in their cattiness for years. Guys would be mean, then someone would burp, they’d all laugh, and then they’d be friends again. All within five minutes.

I hoped Dylan and Josh could still be friends. I hated to think of them like Andrew and Hugh—which totally could have happened. If Josh had pushed Dylan instead of punching him, Dylan could have fallen and hit his head—just like Hugh.

I wondered what Andrew had done with Hugh’s body? It had to be close by. What would I do if I had to get rid of a body? Dump it in the ocean and risk it washing ashore somewhere? Burning it?

And then I knew exactly what I’d do. I’d put it where I put the red tennis shoes, underneath the foundation of the theater.

A screen door slammed, startling me.

“Evie?” Josh stepped off the porch and tucked his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. “Not that you can’t be here, or anything.”

“I’m returning Mrs. Fox’s scrapbooks. She lent them to me.”

“And you brought cupcakes.”

“Scones, actually.”

Josh plucked one off my plate.

“Don’t eat that!”

He must have heard my panic because his hand froze midair. “Why? Did you poison it?”

“No, I just . . .” Images of Hugh and Andrew flashed through my mind. “I’m just kidding. Go ahead.” But right then I knew I didn’t want Josh to eat a magic scone unless it had a love elixir.

But none of it was real, right? Maybe Uncle Mitch was right. Love isn’t about hormones, or aligning stars. Love is about caring for someone no matter what—magic spells, and pheromones aside.

Still, as Josh bit into the scone, my heart fell. It landed somewhere near my feet, and I kicked it out of the way on my way to the front door.

“Hey.” Josh trotted behind me. “Do you want a ride home after you drop those off?”

I wondered if Josh knew, if he could see, what I only just discovered for myself—that all of my pheromones were crying out for him. “Sure. Do you mind waiting?”

Josh shook his head, climbed the stairs to the porch, and rang the bell.

Moments later, Mrs. Fox opened the door. Even in a pair of pink sweats, she looked lovely. “Hello, Evie.”

“Hi, Mrs. Fox. I’m returning your scrapbooks. Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

“Did they help?”

“Yeah.” My thoughts went back to the newspaper article. I still needed to figure out how to tell Hugh and Andrew’s story. I also knew I needed to give the letter to the police, but I didn’t know how to do that without admitting I’d been in Lauren’s house. “I think it’s going to be a great article,” I said slowly, still trying to figure out my next step.

“And are these cupcakes for us?” Mrs. Fox flashed her smile at the scones.

“They’re scones. And they’re for Dylan . . . not that you can’t have one. I brought enough for all of you. I just . . . is he here?”

“No, he’s at the club playing tennis. He’ll be sad he missed you.”

”Oh. Can you make sure Dylan gets one?”

“Of course, dear. Aren’t you sweet?”

Not really.

“You knew he wasn’t here, didn’t you?” I said to Josh as soon as Mrs. Fox disappeared into the house, carrying the scrapbooks and plate of scones.

He grinned.

“What are you doing here?”

His grin faded. “I came to say I was sorry about last night.”

“That makes two of us,” I said. “Do you think he’ll forgive you?”

“That all depends.”

“On what?”

Josh sighed. “I think that depends on you.”

“Don’t worry. Dylan’s over me.”

“What makes you say that? He wasn’t acting over you last night.”

“No, but he will be soon.”

My phone buzzed with a text, and I pulled it from my pocket.

“Andrea wants to meet me at the theater to work on my song. Can you drop me off?”

“Sure.” Josh pulled his bike away from the tree, picked up his helmet, and stuck it on my head.

“You should wear this, not me,” I told him.

He tucked my hair inside the helmet. “The theater’s just around the corner. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be okay, too.”

“Yeah, you’re okay,” Josh said, throwing a leg over his bike and waiting for me to climb behind him.

Why hadn’t I noticed how it felt to sit like this before? Why was it now that I tingled when I put my arms around his waist?

“Ready?” Josh asked over his shoulder.

I nodded, breathless, while Josh gunned the engine.

I entered the theater through the back door. Pushing aside the curtains to the stage, I saw only an empty auditorium.

“Hello? Andrea?”

My voice echoed through the hall. Somewhere, music played. It was opera, only not anything that I recognized. I followed the sound to the basement door. “Hello?” I called out. “Andrea?”

“Down here, Evie.” Andrea’s voice floated up the stairwell.

The wooden stairs led to the dark basement and groaned beneath my weight, warning me not to go any farther. My mind whirred with possibilities—all the things I’d learned in the past few weeks. But the puzzle pieces didn’t fit. Sure, I thought Hugh’s body could be in the basement, but why would Andrea be in the basement?

A light glowed in the darkness, and a scraping noise kept time with the music. I stepped around the corner and dirt flew through the air. It landed with a plop on the brick floor. A wooden chair holding a lantern stood beside a deep pit. On the other side of the pit was a pile of dirt and bricks. And in the pit, stripped to the waist, with sweat gleaming all over his naked—manly—chest, was Andrea.

Or should I say, Andrew. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place.

He stopped shoveling when he saw me. “Found your shoes,” he said, in a man’s voice that sounded so wrong coming from him.

“Those aren’t mine,” I said.

“Well, then why were you so anxious to get them?” He planted his shovel in the dirt and scowled at me.

“I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

“Of course you don’t. But I bet you have a few questions for me—like why didn’t I kill you that night in the woods when I had the chance? I keep asking myself that one.”

He scratched his head and looked genuinely curious. “Too bad your boyfriend isn’t here to save you now.” Andrew dug up a shovelful of dirt and tossed it in the pile. “Since you’re so interested in the history of the Thornhill Theater, I thought you’d appreciate this little known tidbit of tawdry gossip.”

I turned to run back up the stairs, but as I did, the door above me slammed shut seconds before it burst into flames.

“Don’t even think about it, little girl.” Andrew climbed from the pit, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and braced the shovel in front of him.

Wordlessly, I pointed at the door, my only means of escape. I ran toward it, determined to push through the fire if I needed to.

Andrew’s laughter rang out below me. “Would you like to see Hugh and satisfy your curiosity?” He laughed at his own pun. “Get it, see you?”

I stopped at the top of the stairs, frightened by the heat and flames. “Did you kill Lauren, too?”

Andrew stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me. “I didn’t kill anyone. Don’t you understand? Lauren and Hugh both destroyed themselves. Hugh hit his head—purely accidental.”

“But Lauren’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Lauren, the real Lauren, died many years ago. What was left of her, the empty shell she’d become, that was easy enough to dispose. It seemed fitting—leaving her in the mess she’d made of her worthless life.”

Fear surged through me and tingled my hands and feet. Now, I decided, would be a good time for sparks to fly from my fingertips. But nothing happened. I glanced at my hands. They looked the same as they always looked. Pale, thin, harmless.

I screamed. Using all the lessons Mrs. Olson had tried to teach me, I gathered all my breath, tightened my diaphragm, and belted out another scream.

Andrew sighed and climbed one step, the shovel braced in his hands. “My dear. Stop. Just stop. Don’t be so cliché. No one can hear you.”

I willed my fingers to throw fire.

Nothing happened.

“And down here, no one will ever find you—just like they never found poor Hugh.”

I screamed again, this time so loudly and shrill, the window broke.

Glass shattered and fell in a sparkling rain shower as Josh fell into the room.

Surprised, Andrew swung his shovel around, but Josh somersaulted on the floor. After so many years of wrestling with his brothers, he was prepared. He kicked Andrew’s feet out from under him.

Andrew flew backward, hit his head on the chair, and stumbled into the pit.

I ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Staring into the pit, I knew immediately Andrew wouldn’t be trying to get out anytime soon. He lay still and motionless beside the bones of Hugh Thornhill. Best friends, together at last.

Josh, barely winded, stood frozen beside me. “What the—”

I nudged him with my elbow. “Call the police.” My voice trembled and pretty soon my whole body did.

Josh noticed and wrapped his arms around me, trying to stop my shivering, but I noticed his legs were shaking, as well.

“911 emergency,” a nasal voice responded.

While Josh gave the address and tried to explain the situation, I sank onto the wooden steps. Glancing up, I noticed the basement door that had looked like it was engulfed in flames was merely a trick of stage lighting. I wondered how Andrew had slammed the door until I noticed a wire dangling from the knob and swinging in the air.

Josh put his phone in his pocket and came to sit beside me. Draping an arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close.

“I’m not a witch,” I told him.

“What?” He looked as if I’d slapped him.

“I’m not a witch,” I repeated. “I can’t throw fire, or make things burn.”

Josh chuckled and held me tighter. He moved his mouth against my hair, and I wondered if he kissed me—making all thoughts of witchcraft disappear.

I held very still, waiting for Josh to kiss more than my hair.

Instead, he pulled slightly away. “Why would you say that? Do you think you’re in shock?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Did I really want Josh to kiss me? Yes. Not here, not now, and not with Hugh Thornhill and Andrew lying in the pit only a few feet away.

“How did you know?” I asked, my voice still warbly.

Josh shook his head. “I don’t know what made me come back . . . I guess I wanted to drive you home. Then I heard you scream.”

“But why come through the window?”

Josh smiled. “It seemed like the fastest way to get to you.”

The Mysterious Murders of the Thornhill Theater

By Evelynn Marston

In the spring of 1982, Hugh Thornhill, the last surviving member of the Thornhill family and founding father of the Thornhill Thespians, pledged his undying love for Miss Lauren Silver before a crowd gathered for the inaugural show of the Thornhill Theater.

The theater’s very first production,
Love’s Labor Lost
, starred Miss Silver and Hugh Thornhill. As Shakespeare himself wrote,
“
Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.” And so it proved true for Andrew and Hugh—because things went terribly awry.

Andrew Aston also played a leading role in that Shakespearean production, and ultimately, he would play a villainous role in the death of both Miss Lauren Silver and Mr. Hugh Thornhill.

For Andrew loved Lauren, and his bitter jealousy led to an argument that left Hugh Thornhill dead. Andrew buried Hugh beneath the Thornhill mansion and disappeared.

One would think this is where the story ended, but more than thirty years later as the renovations to the theater began, Andrew knew the secret he had so long ago buried was in danger of resurrecting. He had hoped to return to the Thornhill Theater undetected, but as fate would have it, his plan was foiled by his first love, Miss Lauren Silver.

Although the years had greatly altered Miss Silver, her vision and memories remained unchanged, and she recognized Andrew immediately. She knew of his deadly deeds, and she also knew why he had returned. She paid for this knowledge with her life.

And now all who have read this article share her knowledge. Although Andrew Aston is currently awaiting trial in the Fairfield County jail for the murder of Miss Lauren Silver and Mr. Hugh Thornhill, his incarceration is not guaranteed, despite the mountain of evidence against him.