Bewitched and Bewildered (The Triplet Witch Sisters Mystery Series Book 3) Read online

  Harvest sighed. “Taka Zambo is probably anxious to get home. See you at the Grams’ later?”

  Dad gave her another hug, and kissed the top of her head. “I can hardly wait.”

  SPRING BREAK, MY BUTT, Echo thought as her old Subaru fishtailed on a slushy curve. More like the last desperate grasp of winter break. Though she had grown up in South Fishburn, a tiny remnant of a town now mostly covered by the Allegheny Reservoir, winter driving was something she never got good at. Not long after crossing the border from New York, she passed the old Sinclair station, the Last Shop to Nowhere, and the Pennsylvania Dairy Farmers’ Co-op on the right, the Chandlery, her Grams’ business, on the left, and made the turn up the drive to the old farmhouse.

  Both Quinn and Harvest were parked, as well as a car she didn’t recognize. Funny, nobody mentioned a visitor. She grabbed her laundry out of the back and headed inside.

  Quinn and Harvest sat in front of the TV passing popcorn. “Welcome home, Squirt.” Harvest gave her a smile she couldn’t read.

  “How’s school? Did you get a new dorm-mate?”

  “No sign of Bunny.” Nor any of the other Medicine Chicks. The four young women had practically forced the triplets into a life of magic in order to feed off of it. In order to keep the Chicks in animal form, they set a moratorium on casting spells.

  “When do you think we can start doing spells again?” Echo asked.

  “Not sure,” Quinn said. “We know that the Medicine Chicks tapped into our magic, and if we don’t give them any, they have no way to transform back.”

  “Well, it’s totally worth it to keep those nut-jobs away from us. But it’s sad, too. We weren’t witches for very long.” Echo struggled with her usual duffle bags of laundry.

  “Don’t give up hope, Echo.” Harvest put the bowl down on an end table. “There is someone we can ask about this. An expert in magic. Maybe we can start doing spells again soon.”

  “Really? You want to do magic, Harvest?” Echo snorted. Of all of them, Harvest was the last to jump on the magic band wagon.

  Quinn rolled her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you want to know who our magic expert is?” Harvest pressed. “C’mon, how about a guess?”

  “Mom?” Echo asked excitedly. “Well, no, I did see a car parked out front. I can’t picture Mom driving.”

  “No,” Harvest dragged out.

  “But close,” Quinn said.

  “Uncle Nick?”

  With a head shake, she pulled out her cell phone and fiddled for a moment.

  “Quinn? Hey, Quinn, I wasn’t sure if this was still your number.” A deep male voice issued from the speaker.

  Echo’s jaw dropped. “Is that—?”

  “It’s your dad! Look, I have some business your way. I know it’s been awhile, but I’m hoping we can all get together. I sure miss all of you. Pass on my love. I’ll be in Pennsylvania as soon as I’m able.”

  “Holy moly, Dad’s coming home! I have so many questions about Mom, about the Twih, and Uncle Nick, and how in the heck we’re triplets...” Echo stopped short. A tall man stepped out of the kitchen with a fresh bowl of popcorn.

  “Hey, Squirt! Give your old man a hug!”

  Echo dropped her duffle bags and ran into Cade Hutchinson’s arms. “Best. Spring break. Ever!”

  Chapter 4

  Harvest mostly looked on as they revealed their recent adventures. To her surprise, Dad knew all about the Jade Coven, a group of witches bent on wiping out Twih witches like the three sisters, and Medicine Chicks, which he referred to as cases of Involuntary Shamanistic Oppression, or ISO.

  “One day, out of the blue, a young person’s brain wakes up to the magic around him or her,” he said. “ISO doesn’t happen often, especially here, a place where magic energy is faint. But magic is like a weed. Once it takes root, it wants to blossom, to grow, to flourish. Whether that’s in a person’s mind, or in a patch of forest, magic will run riot unless it’s pruned back.”

  “What about the lion sightings? Could the Medicine Chicks transform into something else?” Echo pressed back into the couch. “That’s why I came home, instead of going to Miami.”

  “A lion, like a mountain lion?” Dad asked. “They move through once in a while, from the Rockies. Usually they’re looking for a mate.”

  Echo shook her head. “Big lions, with a mane, but black.”

  “I haven’t heard about a lion around here,” Quinn said.

  “It was on one of the paranormal websites. I try to keep up on things.”

  “Jeeze, Echo, they’re going to think you’re a weirdo at school,” Harvest said. “Keep it on the down-low.”

  “Why? I am a weirdo.” Echo gave her a whatever look. “I have so many questions, Dad. About Mom. Is she, like, extra dimensional, or a demigoddess, an alien? And what is the Twih, anyway? Is it an alternate reality, another dimension, another planet, another time? And why can Quinn write spells, but when I do, they’re lame. And why can Harvest always tell when I’m lying, or upset. Why don’t we have pets? I love animals, but I can’t see keeping anything other than bees. And since you’re Gramma Em’s son, are you a country witch like she is?”

  For a few moments, Dad’s eyebrows stood high. Then, the smile he broke into lit the room. “You’re just like your mother. All of you, in your own way, are like her. I remember having the exact opposite conversation with her about this reality. Why is the sky blue, why does time always seem to run the same speed.”

  Harvest changed tack. “What about you, Dad? What are you up to? You seem to be some kind of witches’ rights advocate.”

  Light faded from his features. “It has proven to be an unfortunately profitable sideline. Here, in the supposedly advanced world, no one believes in witches. Not ones with magic powers, anyway. But in many places, superstition and fear cause harm not only to legitimate spellcasters, but to innocent bystanders with no gifts at all.”

  “So you’re working for the refinery?” Harvest pressed.

  “Not the local refinery, no, but the international conglomeration that holds most of the company’s stock. UOCE is looking to expand drilling in other countries, African countries mainly. It’s no coincidence that witch persecution and native employees are linked. The rising factions stirred by the introduction of Western culture gain prestige by enforcing local mores. Jealousy of certain clans’ ties to the oil industry erupt in witchcraft accusations.”

  “That’s what you do?” Echo asked. “Work for oil companies?”

  Dad shrugged. “I work occasionally with the U.N. and Amnesty International, but the truth is that when oil profits are threatened, big money is offered to solve the problem. It funds my research, often times for years.”

  “Research into what?” Harvest leaned closer.

  “I’m trying to determine what happened to the Twih, and why we human spellcasters no longer have access to it.” Dad leaned closer to Harvest and took her hands. “I’m trying to get back together with your mother.”

  THE DISCUSSION LASTED long into the night. It seemed like Dad didn’t know a whole lot more about magic than they did. But Quinn had a nine-to-five job. She’d slipped away before the talk ended. Tired this morning, she headed toward the break room at work for coffee.

  “Hey, Quinn. You look terrible.” Danielle Park, Human Services director for the county, looked up from her donut.

  “Thanks!” She said brightly.

  “Sorry. It looks like you’re not getting enough sleep. So I’ll lob one to you this morning. Truancy case. Kid’s been late to or skipping school for a week. His parents don’t know why. The bus comes every morning, but the boy isn’t at the stop. File’s on your desk.” Dr. Park went back to her jelly-filled.

  Mug in hand, Quinn headed for her office, mumbling a greeting to Rae Devon, her friend and immediate supervisor. A thin file held only a few sheets of paper. There was a general information sheet about George Cochran, a fifth-grader, no remarkable discipline p
roblems until recently. He lived with both parents and a younger brother down near Clarendon, south of Warren. While the whole area was woodsy, Quinn had to crack a smile. The location was described as Possum Hollow, near Dutchman Run. Even to her native ear, it sounded beyond rustic. Any woodsier than that, and you were living in a lean-to and eating pan-fried varmint.

  She took Pennsylvania Avenue East across the river to where it intersected Route 6. The route was the same the Grams took when they went on swimming outings at Chapman Dam, to the west. Running flat and smooth, the Allegheny reflected the vivid green buds on the trees as she crossed the bridge.

  The Cochrans had a well-drilling business, their rig parked on a broad lawn before a sizable house. At the farmhouse, the Grams had two wells, one for the people and one for the farm. While most of the local development ran along city water infrastructure, if you lived out in the sticks, you needed a well. New cars in the driveway said the family was doing okay financially. Now, if she could just figure out what was wrong with George.

  Mr. Cochran met her at the door wearing an apron and wiping a dish. “You the social worker?”

  “Quinn Hutchison,” she nodded. “Tell me about George.”

  “He’s a good kid. Watches too damn many horror movies. C’mon in.” The door led into the kitchen, the room spotless even though the smell of bacon and pancakes lingered. “I play Mr. Mom in the winter. Ground’s too frozen to drill. Got winter gigs, firewood and a snowplow, but it’s been a mild one.”

  Absently, Quinn picked up on Cochran’s need to explain why he was at home instead of working. Looking into the living room beyond, she saw that it was immaculate. Cochran brought her coffee without asking. They sat at the table.

  “I called the school before I arrived. George isn’t there.”

  “Cream and sugar?” Cochran didn’t flinch.

  “Black is fine.”

  “George is hiding in the tool shed. He knows I’m going uptown to pay some bills later, and he’ll sneak inside then.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ve talked to him about it. Asked if he was getting bullied on the bus. Asked if he was doing bad in school. Asked if it had to do with a girl. He said nothing was wrong, and I did some follow-up. Bus driver, teacher, they say the same.”

  The coffee was good and hot. “I have to ask, is there tension in the home? Between you and your wife, any fights, financial woes, something that George might be making into something too large to deal with?”

  “Nope. I mean, winters are always tight, but my wife has a regular job at the drug store. That’s the thing, the real root of it. George is ten, almost eleven. It isn’t girl problems, or drugs or booze, doctor says he’s healthy. What it comes down to is; I got no idea what goes through the mind of a fifth-grader, y’know?”

  Quinn listened, trying to read any subconscious message in the conversation. She didn’t get the feeling the father was hiding anything. He just seemed equally concerned and mystified by his son’s behavior. “Is it okay if I talk to him?”

  “Please,” Cochran smiled. “See, I feel bad. He’s said he was late and missed the bus, he’s said he felt sick, but now, he’s out of excuses. He’s outright breaking the rules. I know I’m too much of a softie, but I draw the line at giving him a ride to school every day. Not if he won’t say what the problem is. I’m also sick of covering for him with the school.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Quinn got up. “Thanks for the coffee. You said the tool shed?”

  The so-called shed was a full-on shop, with huge drill bits hanging on walls along with more tools than she’d ever seen. A heavy-duty pickup truck parked centrally, a snow plow installed on the front end. Light from the cab caught her eye. George sat there, playing a hand-held game.

  So focused was he on the tiny screen, he didn’t notice her until she’d opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Hey, George. I’m Quinn.”

  The boy’s big-eyed look of shock was almost comical. He had dark hair, cut bowl-style, and blue eyes like his father. “Are you from the school?”

  “Kinda. People are concerned about your absences. Your parents, too. You want to talk about why you’re ditching?”

  He returned to the game. “I don’t mean to ditch. School’s okay.”

  “You have friends in school?”

  George shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Do you feel like you’re falling behind in class? Is there too much homework?”

  He shook his head. “It’s good.”

  Quinn thought over her conversation with the father. An idea occurred. “What is it about the bus you don’t like?”

  Finally, he looked up at her. “The bus is okay.”

  She heard that he wanted to continue, to add a but...

  Quinn added it for him. “But...?”

  “Nothing.” He returned to the game.

  She tried to prompt him. “Is one of the students bullying you on the bus?”

  “Nuh-uh.” The game beeped a triumphant tune.

  “Is the bus driver mean?”

  Head shake.

  Impatient, she thought hard. If nothing was wrong in school or on the bus, then what? Maybe she could find a clue by taking a look herself. “Where does the bus stop for you, George?”

  The boy dropped the game. Instead of scrambling for it, he gave her wide eyes. It took a moment for him to speak. “Down the road, in the hollow.”

  A reaction, she thought. “Listen, George. I’m on your side in this. Is somebody bothering you at the bus stop? A grownup in a car?”

  His eyes left hers, and he fished the game from between the pedals. Wrong tack, she thought. “All right, I’ll go take a look myself.”

  George side-eyed her, but didn’t speak.

  “Are you having bad dreams about the bus stop? I specialize in bad dreams. And I can help you.”

  Again, she had his full attention. “You shouldn’t go to the bus stop by yourself.”

  “I can handle it. We’ll talk again soon, okay?”

  Quinn left him there and walked out to the road. She saw a bus shelter a ways down the hill, on the opposite side of the street. No homes stood near the stop. She assumed it served the few homes on the road. It took almost ten minutes to walk the distance. Behind the shelter, a half-erased drive ran into thick woods.

  Where was Harvest when she needed her? Investigation wasn’t Quinn’s forte. Still, she studied the lean-to, wider than a picnic table with a narrow bench. Snow and ice remained on the shadowed roof. A few food wrappers blew in the leaves. No cars passed. She left the shelter and started down the diminished driveway. And there it was.

  Quinn hunkered down over a foot print driven deeply into the mud. It was oval in shape, larger than the span of her hand. Water had filled the impression, and frozen. Quinn couldn’t tell what had made the print. From her low vantage, she gazed down the rutted track. Another print marred the mud a few yards distant.

  She studied the second one, this a long drag through the mud, as if the animal had slipped. One notable difference between this one and the first was the undeniable lines of claw marks in the mud. Though she scanned the area carefully, she saw only the two prints. Given the muddy sprawl all around, that was impossible. Quinn, however, dealt with the impossible a lot of the time.

  Chapter 5

  Pennsylvania State Constables most frequently served as process servers for the lower court. The most often undertaken task, and Harvest’s least favorite, was serving people for unpaid garbage bills. She had a stack today. Most of her targets were off to work at this hour, but she’d take care of them later. She had one for Ron Mooney, better known as Trooper Mooney. The paper said he’d been placed on administrative leave following the shootout with the gangsters a week back. Harvest was pretty sure that meant he was home.

  Home was off of Route 65, Pennsylvania Avenue West, past the semi-industrial area. She parked on the corner of Weiler Road just past the split leading to the cemetery. Most of the few homes here were sprawling places on big yard
s or small farms. Only one small property had a tall fence around it. Harvest knew cops and knew without looking at the mailbox that this was Trooper Mooney’s place.

  The driveway gate hung open. Harvest paused. That was odd. Her eyes strayed to the fence, topped with barbed wire. A new Dodge Challenger parked by the two-car garage. On the ground, a glimmer caught her eye—the shiny chain and lock for the gate. Pulling the gate closed, she noted the latch was torn from the wood.

  Harvest’s hand strayed to the gun holstered in her vest. “Hello?” she called. “State Constable. I’m coming to the door.”

  As she neared, damaged and stained wood on the wall of the garage drew her. The roof of the garage served as a second-floor balcony. Both the wall and railing were spattered with mud and crisscrossed with bright scratches. Craning her neck, she saw curtains blowing through the patio doorway. Given the temperature, there was no way Mooney was letting in fresh air.

  “Trooper Mooney? This is State Constable Hutchinson. Can you hear me? Are you injured? Do you need help?”

  It wasn’t her place to bust in. Broken patio doors were suspicious, but not a crime in progress. This was beyond her duties. One hand on her gun, she pulled out her cell phone. “Sgt. Oberon? This is State Constable Harvest Hutchinson. I think we have a situation here.”

  ECHO DROVE DAD TO THE offices of United International Refineries and Exploration after a leisurely breakfast of soft-boiled eggs on toast she made herself. Leisurely, because she was a slow cook. Dad didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed kind of proud. While she had driven past the refinery her whole life, she’d never actually given it much thought before. The refinery itself was on Dobson Avenue, the offices were north, on 2nd Ave near Liberty.

  She kept up her series of questions, Dad happy to answer despite the feeling that she was grilling him for information.