Chapter 1
The members of the village council started warning me about April 30th at the end of March. They rarely exaggerated. In fact, events that I considered alarming were often dismissed as normal. So I should have been prepared. I wasn’t.
The thirteen of us were in our seats in the boardroom at The Inn by five thirty. In the morning. At that time, the line of people already stretched most of the way around the pentacle-shaped garden at the center of the commons area. Apparently, the annual attempt to relocate to our little community of less than one thousand souls was as predictable as nature waking up in the spring. The thing was no one could just move to Whispering Pines. One had to apply and receive permission. Turned out, so many people would show up here after the winter thaw looking for a fresh start, the council eventually set aside an entire day to hear the pleas. That day was today.
This year, the council claimed, the number of hopefuls was especially long, so we imposed a time limit. Each person or group was allocated fifteen minutes. That broke down into ten minutes for them to give us their pitch, four for the members to debate, one for us to announce our decision, and zero to appeal. Not a second more. We even stationed our village bouncer, a man who closely resembled a bull, Jagger, to remove the candidates at the exact fifteen-minute mark if they hadn’t left the room.
I had to give them credit, the pleas were quite creative. One woman said she knew about the trouble Whispering Pines had been having with murders and claimed to be able to deflect negativity by placing a magical bubble over the village.
A desperate mother insisted the energy surrounding the village was exactly the thing her hyperactive child needed to calm down. Then she slung every curse word imaginable at us while Jagger hauled her out of the room.
A man claimed he could cure the village witches of their belief in Wicca. He got one minute to speak, three seconds for us to say “No” in unison, and as many seconds to restate his request as it took for Jagger to drag him out.
After ten hours, with a one-hour lunch recess and a fifteen-minute bathroom break now and then, we hadn’t approved a single new villager. At four o’clock, our last applicants of the day entered the conference room. This group reminded me of the coven that had visited us during Ostara last month. They were all dressed in black and wore either pentacles or crescent moon pendants. They looked like witches, except it was the clichéd version of how people assumed Wiccans dressed. Granted, some legitimately preferred the look. Others were content to wear jeans and T-shirts or yoga gear.
“Tell us your name,” began Flavia Reed, the self-professed leader of the council, “and explain why we should allow you to move to our village.”
“I’m Rex Bennefield,” explained a man with sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail and a goatee with an exceptionally long beard tied every few inches with a hairband. “The four of us represent our coven, and we live in west-central Wisconsin on the border with Minnesota. The people there don’t understand us. They think we’re Satanists and are sacrificing calves beneath the full moon.”
The others in his group chuckled at this. The other man said, “Ever heard of a coyote?”
“We’re requesting,” Bennefield continued, “that Whispering Pines become our home because we’re tired of big city life and want to live in a quiet, like-minded community.”
We waited, all of us bleary-eyed and hungry, for him to say something more that would catch our attention. Laurel had the kitchen on notice to prepare our late lunch/early dinner as soon as she gave the word. There was a double bacon cheeseburger and steak fries with my name on it, so it would take something unique to get me to think about anything other than my stomach.
“That’s it?” demanded Maeve, owner of Grapes, Grains, and Grub pub. She got crabby when tired. “Nobody understands you, so we should let you in?”
Cybil, elder villager, head fortune teller, and woman always in a bad mood snorted. “That’s the war cry of every teenager on the planet, Mr. Bennefield. What else have you got for us?”
“Where do you live?” coffee house owner Violet asked.
“North Hudson,” the man answered as though that explained all their troubles.
“North Hudson,” I repeated, “has a population of what, three or four thousand?”
The group nodded in unison.
“That’s not exactly a big city,” sweet shop co-owner Sugar stated in a tone that echoed Cybil’s.
Sugar had read my mind. Considering two fortune tellers, Cybil and Effie, were sitting across the table, that thought struck me as funnier than it really should have. I needed that burger soon.
Reeva Long, acting as secretary for the day, jotted notes on a legal pad, tiny bells dangling from her pen jingling as she did. “I’m sorry to say, Mr. Bennefield, if you can’t come up with a stronger reason, we won’t even need for you to step outside to make our decision.”
It didn’t matter that Flavia was likely thinking the same thing, as we all were. The fact that her sister had verbalized the thought before she did earned her a scoffing laugh. This gave the man hope so he tried again. “You all surely remember what it felt like to not be accepted by those you live with before you got here.”
“Most of us,” Laurel stated, “have lived here all our lives, so we don’t know what that’s like. Your job is to help us understand that feeling.”
I offered her a wink and a nod. Well stated.
“What do you all do for a living?” Morgan asked. At eight and a half months pregnant, she spent the day sitting, standing, leaning against the wall, and running to the bathroom. She, more than any of us, was ready for this day to be over. She’d told me during our lunch break that she wished she’d had her mother, Briar, sit in as proxy for her today.
The man cleared his throat and explained that they were teachers, mechanics, shop owners, musicians, construction workers, and yoga instructors.
Morgan stood and paced the width of the room with her hands to her lower back. “And what do you intend to do here? Mr. Powell might need help in village services, but unfortunately, we have no openings for any of your other skills. Important as they are.”
“You need to bring value to the village,” Effie added. “Otherwise, we’re happy to welcome you as visitors, but you can’t stay.”
The group members stared at each other, scrambling for a satisfactory answer. With the clock ticking down, the spokesman blurted, “We could open businesses of our own.”
“For which,” Flavia sniffed, “you would need our approval.”
Desperately, Bennefield began, “What about—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted him, “your ten minutes are up. I have two suggestions for you. First, analyze the needs of the village to see if a skill you could offer would fill a need here. Second, and the one you should consider more strongly, is to return to North Hudson and educate your community about Wicca. Once they understand, I can almost guarantee your lives will become easier.”
If they even were Wiccan, which I doubted.
“You can’t stop us from moving here,” a female voice insisted.
I scanned the quartet. A man and woman, a couple if the way they held hands was any sign, had their eyes fixed on their leader of the moment. Another woman, with her jaw set in defiance, took in the council with a sweeping glance.
Five foot four, approximately one hundred ten pounds, wavy dishwater-blonde hair just past her shoulders, a ring on either side of her lower lip.
Lip rings worn that way were called snake bites. My sister, Rosalyn, had considered getting a set during one of her phases. I convinced her to get a faux set that didn’t require actual piercings.
“Actually,” Sugar replied to Snake Bite, “we can.”
“It’s a free country,” Snake Bite pushed.
“But Whispering Pines is a privately owned property.” I matched her supposedly intimidating stare. “My family owns this land. My grandmother formed the council decades ago to be sure all villagers had a voice, but being able to live here is by invitation only.”
Her tongue played with one of the rings as her eyes shot flaming daggers at me.
“I don’t believe we need four minutes to debate this decision,” Flavia announced. “I call for an immediate vote. Those in favor of allowing this group to join our community?”
No hands went up.
“Those against?”
All hands went up and a chorus of, “Nay,” sounded in the suddenly claustrophobic room.
Flavia thumped her palm gavel, which looked like an upside-down mushroom carved from oak. “Request denied.”
Snake Bite glared. “You haven’t heard the last of us.”
“Careful,” I warned and flashed my sheriff’s badge at her.
“Thank you for trying.” Reeva’s tone was like a balm for their wounds. “Please do come back again when you have a stronger proposal. Unique and useful services are always welcome.”
We all nodded but said nothing more. It was meant to be a dismissal. When it was obvious they weren’t going to leave until they got the okay they came for, Maeve called out, “Jagger!”
The mountainous man opened the door a heartbeat later. He knew there was only one reason we’d call for him. He stepped between us and the group. “Pretty sure that means you were denied. Time to go. If you’d like to enjoy a little village hospitality while you’re here, I suggest the Grapes, Grains, and Grub pub just west of here.”
Maeve smiled at her employee.
“Or the dining room here.” Laurel got to her feet and headed for the extension in the corner. That meant she was going to order my burger now. And everyone else’s food too.
“Or Treat Me Sweetly,” Sugar suggested. “If you’d rather have a snack.”
“Or Ye Olde Bean Grinder,” Violet recommended, “if you’d like a cup of coffee for the road.”
“We were planning to stay for a while,” spokesman Bennefield told us. “Despite your denial, we still love it here.”
“You’re staying for our Beltane celebration?” ringmaster Creed asked. “The first performance at the circus’s big top isn’t until the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, but right now we’ve got midway acts to enjoy and the animals are on display.”
Snake Bite started to speak again, and Bennefield cut her off. “Thank you all. We’ll check out everything and be on the lookout for possible needs we can fill. Maybe you’ll say yes next time.”
The man and woman smiled, thanked us, and waved as Jagger spread his big arms wide as though herding sheep, and ushered them out the door. They seemed pleasant enough, but something about the group didn’t sit right with me. And it wasn’t just Snake Bite. Bennefield turned accommodating very quickly. Maybe I was tired from the long day. I was definitely hungry. Either way, I made a mental note to tell my deputy, Martin Reed, that we needed to keep an eye on this group.