Witches, Recipes, and Murder Read online

  She nodded.

  I went up the stairs, grateful that Bill had shown me that letter. It hadn't occurred to me to go and check out Mack's apartment until reading it, but with his address written beneath his signature like that, the idea seemed like a no-brainer. It was almost like fate had put the letter in front of me just for this purpose. For all I knew, the box—or rather, whatever was inside the box—could be sitting in plain sight in Mack's apartment.

  I tried the knob, certain it wouldn't turn, and I was right. I sighed and tried the first of three spells I knew to open a lock. It did nothing but make a loud beeping noise like a dial tone. I tried the second spell, and this time the knob jiggled, but it still didn't turn. I let out a sigh, asked help from whatever spirits might be listening, and tried my third spell. This time, the knob turned easily.

  Stepping into Mack's apartment was like stepping into a funeral parlor. Okay, that may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but I couldn't help it. I was acutely aware that this apartment belonged to a dead man. That everything inside it and everything I touched belonged to a dead man. It felt like being surrounded by death even though there were no bodies here.

  I wondered what was going to happen to his things. Would Von get them? Would he even want them? Probably not, I reasoned.

  It was too bad. There were some nice things here. An antique-looking vase. A couple of paintings that had clearly been done by a professional artist. An old coffee table that also looked antique. I wasn't much of a decorator, but I thought that Mack had good taste.

  I looked around, using the flashlight on my phone and going from room to room, not really sure what I was searching for, but feeling that it must be here nevertheless. Maybe Mack himself was here, guiding me. I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was something important hidden here. It might not be the item in question, but there was something... I just had to figure out what it was.

  Sheriff Knoxx and whatever agents Dean Lampton had working this case beside Colt had clearly been through this apartment already. Things had been taken off shelves and hastily replaced. On the mantle above the fireplace sat a small silver box. There was dust on the mantle where it had sat. I could see the box's outline in the dust just to the right of where it sat now. That was almost certainly the spot Mack had placed it. Whoever had removed it for inspection had set it back carelessly, in the wrong spot.

  I looked at it closely, lifting the lid. There was nothing inside. I moved it back to the outline where it belonged. I moved next to a bookcase. The books didn't look as if they'd been touched. Apparently whatever they were looking for must not have been a book. At least, that's what Sheriff Knoxx and Dean Lampton must think. I wondered if they knew for certain what they were after, or if they were only guessing like me.

  Suddenly, three loud meows sounded from outside the door. They sounded vicious, too, like Snowball was getting ready to attack someone. "MEEOOOWWW MEEEOOOWWW MEEEOOOOWWWWW!!"

  I quickly looked around for a place to hide. There was no perfect spot, but I could hear footsteps on the stairs outside and had to get somewhere fast. I ducked into a hall closet and hoped for the best. There were several coats on hangers and a crack along the side by the hinges large enough for me to see through.

  The knob on the apartment's front door turned, and I peeked out of the crack. A bright flashlight shined into the apartment. A man stepped in and for a moment his face was consumed in darkness, then he turned as he shut the door and I saw Dean Lampton's balding head shining back at me.

  I held my breath.

  What's he doing here?

  I watched through the crack, changing angles where I could, trying to keep track of his movements. He walked over to a side table, opened a drawer, and started shuffling through it.

  "Where is it?" he muttered to himself. "I know that old fart hid it here somewhere." He slammed the drawer shut and disappeared from my sight. A minute later, I heard drawers opening and closing left and right. It took me a second to realize he was in the kitchen. He must have been going through every drawer and cabinet in there.

  He continued to mutter to himself the whole time. Some of it I understood, other pieces of it were unintelligible. "Where is it? Whaddafudda mugga dang it!"

  He came back into the living room and through the crack, I saw him turn toward the closet where I was hiding. I gasped then clamped my hand over my mouth and took a step back so that my back was pressed against the wall. I tried to hide behind the coats but there weren't enough of them. If he opened the door, he'd see me in a second.

  Dean walked my way, and I readied myself.

  "Meeoow!!!" came Snowy's voice from the front door. "MEEEOOWW!" She scratched at the door and it opened. Dean stopped with his hand on the knob to the closet door and turned toward Snowy, who let out a third meow. "MEEEOOWWWW!" she cried, almost like she was in pain.

  "Shush!" Dean yelled, but to no avail. Snowy was not going to stop just because he wanted her to. The door across the way opened, and a neighbor poked her head out.

  "What's going on out there?" she said.

  Dean forgot all about the closet where I was hiding and hurried out the front door. Snowy made a mad dash for the stairs and disappeared before he could get to her. He shut the door behind him, figuring it was better to get out now than to get caught breaking into Mack's apartment.

  That thought stunned me. It had been there all along, I supposed, but hadn't been fully formed. Dean Lampton, the head of COMHA, had just broken into Mack Heathrow's apartment. If his being here had been on the up and up, he wouldn't have needed the flashlight he was using. He would simply have turned the lights on. And he wouldn't have been frightened off by a cat's meows. He was scared of being detected.

  No. Whatever Dean was up to, it was definitely in the gray area of the law, if not the black.

  I felt slightly better. If he had caught me, what could he have done unless he wanted to expose himself as well?

  Snowy had played her part wonderfully. She'd know it, too, and would be expecting tuna later. I'd surprise her and give her two cans instead of one. I stepped quietly out of the closet, waiting until I was sure the nosy neighbor had withdrawn her head back into her own apartment, and then headed for the front door to make my escape.

  I paused with my hand on the knob. I might not get another chance to come back here. There was something nagging at the back of my head. Something about the bookcase I'd only glanced at. I peered out the window, saw no sign of Dean, and walked swiftly to the bookcase.

  I stared at the books, trying to figure out what it was that was bothering me about them. They were neat and tidy and alphabetized. They were one of the few places the sheriff and his deputies, as well as COMHA's agents, hadn't touched. Whatever they wanted wasn't a book and yet...

  There! My eye finally caught it. There was one book out of place.

  Melville... Meyers... Kane... Patterson.

  Kane was out of order, and it was the only one.

  I pulled it off the shelf and stared at the cover. The book title was My Life, the author was listed as Citizen Kane. I was pretty sure there was no such author, at least not that I knew of. I flipped open the book to the first page and my eyes widened.

  "Oh, my roses!" I said a little too loudly. I shut the book and held it to my chest. Christmas had just come early this year.

  I ran out the front door and down the stairs.

  "Mama Mama Mama!" Snowy shouted. "Snowball did good! Bad man is gone!"

  "Thanks, Snowy. I know. You did real good."

  "Where is Mama running to?" she asked.

  "Home," I told her. "We've got to get home. Now. I've just found the key to everything."

  * * *

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

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  I sat at the kitchen table, wondering whether to wake everyone up or let them sleep. I could hear my dad snoring in his bed
room. He must have been exhausted. He only snored when he was beyond tired.

  Snowy rubbed her legs against my ankles and purred. I scratched her head and she licked my hand, then went back for her second bowl of tuna. I hoped it wouldn't make her sick. Sometimes I spoiled her. I knew that, I just couldn't help myself.

  My dad let out another snore that made the kitchen chandelier shake.

  Let them sleep. I could tell them about my discovery tomorrow just as easily as tonight. Tomorrow I might even have more information.

  I opened the book back up to the first page.

  The Journal of Mack Heathrow was scrawled across the top of it in the same tiny, rigid handwriting I'd seen on the outside of the envelope Mack had left for Natalie before he was killed.

  I flipped through it. The journal seemed to begin when Mack was in middle school and end sometime during high school. It was a large journal—about the size of War and Peace—but not so large that he could have written in it every day from middle school through high school. He'd have run out of room before his senior year.

  I decided the best place to start the journal was at the beginning. If whatever secret Mack was keeping had begun in high school, as his letter to Natalie indicated, then it had to be somewhere in these pages. Journals were just like diaries—they were meant to hold secrets. When you had something that you just had to tell someone, only you knew you couldn't, you could always tell yourself. That's precisely what a journal was—an extension of yourself.

  The first page wasn't anything much. Mack talked a lot about the bullies who were picking on him. Bill's name was mentioned, and I couldn't help but wonder how Natalie felt about that, or if she even knew. The next few pages were all from his first year in middle school. He'd started off the journal by writing every day, but by page ten he had dropped to every other day and then written sporadically after that.

  I read until my eyelids grew heavy and my vision began to blur. Nothing jumped out at me. I wondered if I was missing anything important because I was so tired, but I couldn't bring myself to stop. I knew the answers I needed were here somewhere in these pages.

  My eyes drifted shut a few times until finally they stayed that way. They didn't open again until my dad set a cup of coffee down next to me and tapped my shoulder.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "Oh," I muttered, looking blearily around me. "Morning." I mumbled it a little so that it sounded more like "mormig."

  "Did you sleep down here?" he asked, looking equal parts curious and concerned. I nodded, and he pushed the coffee cup closer to me.

  Aunt Trixie came down and saw me already at the table. Her eyes widened. "You beat us down here? You must've gotten up early today."

  "Try stayed up late," my dad said. "She slept down here."

  Aunt Trixie froze. Tootsie ran across her feet, a giant orange blur weaving in and out from between her ankles. "You slept down here? You don't mean... not at the table?" She almost squealed this last part as Tootsie stood attentively by his food dish. She absently opened a can of his favorite food and put it in his bowl.

  "That's right," my dad said. "She was snoring when I came in."

  "I was not!" I screeched. "I don't snore. You snore."

  "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," he teased and winked at Trixie. "She didn't even hear me till I put a cup of coffee in front of her."

  "All right, all right," I said, taking a sip of the coffee my dad had given me. It was black. He must have sensed it had been an extra-late night. "You'll stop poking fun at me when you hear why I was up all night."

  I pointed to the journal.

  "What's that?" Trixie asked.

  "Mack Heathrow's journal," I said, not bothering to hide the smile playing on my lips. Dean Lampton himself had been in Mack's apartment and missed this. How many COMHA agents had scoured the place? How many of the sheriff's deputies? Yet I'd been the only one to find it. I didn't want to blow my own horn and all that, but I thought I had a right to be pleased with myself.

  "You're kidding!" Trixie shouted at the same time my dad shouted, "You what?!"

  I laughed with delight. "I found Mack Heathrow's journal."

  Trixie and my father inched toward me, reaching for it.

  "Oh, no," I said. "You're not getting it until I'm through with it."

  "How much have you read?" Trixie asked.

  I crinkled my brow. "About half.”

  "And?" my dad asked.

  I sighed. "So far, nothing. No mention of any big secret unless you count the crush on Natalie, which turned out to be not much of a secret, I guess, since they started dating a couple years later."

  "Are you sure there's nothing helpful in it?" Trixie asked, pouting.

  "Not in what I've read so far."

  "Maybe you need a fresh pair of eyes on it," she said. "You might've missed something."

  I pressed my lips together. I knew she was right, I was just reluctant to part with the book now that I had it.

  "Ava..." my dad said. "You haven't told us where you found this, only that you found it."

  I felt the blush creep into my cheeks. "It was on a bookcase."

  "A bookcase?" Trixie asked, scrunching her brows tightly together.

  "Yeah. It was the only one out of alphabetical order."

  "That's pretty clever of you," Trixie said, but my dad wasn't quite buying it all.

  "Where was this bookcase?" he asked.

  I bit my bottom lip and looked at him. "Mack's apartment."

  My dad's eyes bugged out of his head. "Oh, my roses. Ava, tell me you didn't."

  I looked at him innocently. "Didn't what?"

  "Didn't break into Mack's apartment last night."

  My blush deepened, and I looked away from him. "I would, but we both agreed not to lie to each other anymore."

  "Ava!" Trixie shouted so loudly from behind me that I jumped in my seat.

  "I've gotta get ready for work," I told them and rose from my seat before they could ask any more questions.

  "Wait a second," my dad said, "we're not through here. You can't just tell us you broke into Mack's house and not follow that up with an explanation."

  "I'll tell you later when we have more time," I said and reached for my coffee cup. The tips of my fingers brushed against it but the rest of my hand missed it.

  "No!" I screamed as I watched the mug tip over and hot brown liquid spill all over the journal, soaking the pages instantly and turning the white paper to brown.

  * * *

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

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  I sat in the front of the bakery, my eyes still red. I'd spent the whole morning crying.

  "I can't believe I did that," I said for the umpteenth time today. My dad and aunts must have been getting sick of hearing it. "How could I spill coffee over the most important book I've ever read? It was our only real clue!"

  "Ava, you've got to stop blaming yourself," my dad said. "It was an accident."

  I rolled my eyes. "Some accident. I just ruined our only chance of finding out Mack's secret."

  "Don't give up yet," Eleanor said. "Trixie's working on it. Give her a chance to fix it before you go writing it off entirely."

  I looked at Eleanor. "Do you really think she can do something? It looked like something that belonged in the garbage heap when we left this morning."

  "Well, now, I wasn't there to see it, of course, but... one time when we were in high school, Trixie ruined a first edition copy of Casting Spells with Insects that our father had. To this day, I don't know how she got those pizza stains off of it. It was like an actual miracle."

  "Really?" I asked, feeling the tiniest twinge of hope prick at my heart.

  "Really," Eleanor said. "She's a whiz at cleaning spells and charms. Even if she can't fix it entirely, chances are very good that she can at least make it readable again."

&
nbsp; I felt a little better after hearing that. My dad had felt so bad for me after I'd destroyed the journal and had a mini mental breakdown, that he'd let the whole "breaking and entering" thing slide. At least for now, he wasn't asking any more questions about how I'd gotten into Mack's apartment in the first place.

  "Wasn't there anything that you read in there already that might be helpful?" Eleanor asked. "There must have been something."

  "No." Then I thought about it a bit more. "Actually... maybe." I looked at my dad. "Did you know that Bill Vargas was one of the kids who used to pick on Mack in school?"

  "No," he said. "I didn't. Mack never wanted to name names. It wasn't just that he was scared of making things worse for himself, I think he just didn't believe in tattling unless it was something that might get someone hurt."

  "But he was getting hurt," I pointed out.

  "Yeah, but he was used to it. He always cared more about others than about himself. If one of his classmates had been getting bullied, he'd have been the first to say something."

  I bit my bottom lip. "In his journal, he specifically mentioned Bill as one of his bullies. Do you think it's possible that Trixie had a point before about Bill being responsible for Mack's death?"

  "When did my sister say that?" Eleanor asked and I remembered that she hadn't been in the back room with us when we'd had that conversation.

  "A few days ago," I told her. "I thought it was a good idea at first, but then I changed my mind when I saw how worried he was about Natalie. Part of Trixie's theory was that Bill was the one who's been trying to kill her because he thought she was having an affair with Mack."

  "Maybe I could talk to him," my dad said.