Chapter 17 Party Tricks
PARTY TRICKS
I stared.
The stocky Marcheford adjusted his clown nose with thick fingers and stared down at it cross-eyed for a moment before squaring his shoulders and marching back inside the house like a man who had lost a bet and was honoring it with grim resignation.
The door closed behind him.
Silence filled the car.
“I have so many questions,” Gavin mumbled.
Didi gripped the steering wheel with both hands, her expression cycling through what appeared to be the five stages of professional bewilderment. She reached the acceptance stage with visible effort.
“I’m picking up zero magical signatures,” she said finally, her tone grim. “Absolutely nothing. Whatever they’re doing in there, it’s not witchcraft.”
“It might be worse than witchcraft,” Bo said, his nose still pressed to the glass and his tail accelerating. “That clown looked terrified.”
He wasn’t wrong. The stocky Marcheford’s body language had projected quiet desperation, like he’d made a terrible mistake and was in too deep to back out.
“We should probably get closer,” I suggested reluctantly.
Didi’s mouth thinned. “I don’t know. I feel like we’re about to witness things that might haunt us for eternity.”
I was getting the same vibes but duty called.
“We should conclude our surveillance operation,” I said in my best professional tone.
“We’ll be spying on a clown,” Didi said flatly.
Our earpieces crackled.
“I agree with Abby,” Nigel contributed sheepishly. “Besides, I’m dying to know what that clown is up to.”
“Same,” Bo enthused.
We put it to a vote. Nigel, Bo, and I won the majority.
Didi sighed and killed the engine. We got out of the car and proceeded cautiously toward the property.
We made it halfway down the sidewalk before a golden retriever in the neighboring yard spotted Bo and launched into a frenzy of barking that could have woken the dead. Which, in Amberford, was not always a figure of speech.
Bo froze mid-stride.
“Keep moving,” I hissed.
The retriever threw itself against the chain-link fence, tail wagging furiously. Bo couldn’t resist. He veered toward the fence with the gravitational pull of a dog who hadn’t socialized with another canine in days.
“Bo,” I warned through clenched teeth, glancing around furiously.
Curtains were beginning to twitch up along the street.
“It’s rude to ignore a greeting,” the Husky protested as he exchanged enthusiastic sniffs through the chain links. The retriever licked his nose.
Gavin’s horns chose this moment to pop out. He slapped them down and ducked behind a trash can that was approximately half his size.
“Subtle,” Didi observed acidly.
Music drifted from the house. It was something upbeat and jingly that sounded like it was being played through a portable speaker at maximum volume. Children’s laughter punctuated the melody. A high-pitched shriek rang out, followed by a chorus of delighted squealing.
The sinking feeling was getting worse.
Bo returned. “Cookie says there’s some kind of party going on. He smelled hot dogs and grilled corn cobs earlier.”
The golden retriever gave us a final woof as we crept along the side of the property. A wooden fence bordered the backyard. It was just tall enough for us to discreetly peer over. I stared.
Didi had been right. This was going to haunt us forever.
The backyard had been transformed into a party zone.
Streamers hung from every available surface.
Balloons in clashing colors were tied to lawn chairs, the fence posts, and what appeared to be some very confused garden gnomes.
A banner strung between two trees read HAPPY BIRTHDAY OLIVER!
in hand-painted letters that were enthusiastic if not entirely straight.
Parents ran after wayward kids like football players about to attempt a touchdown.
The Marchefords were in the thick of it.
Stocky-Clown Marcheford was attempting to twist a long balloon into an animal shape for a cluster of children who watched him with the ruthless expectation unique to six-year-olds.
His thick fingers wrestled with the latex like he was trying to strangle a very thin snake.
The balloon emitted a pained squeak and contorted into something that resembled no creature, supernatural or otherwise, found in nature.
“It’s a giraffe!” he announced with forced cheer.
A girl in a princess tiara studied the result skeptically. “It looks like a pregnant worm.”
The clown’s eyes died a little.
Across the yard, Tall Marcheford and Young Marcheford had set up the large wooden chest from the workshop. It was now positioned on a folding table and Tall Marcheford was gesturing at it with the showmanship of a man who’d watched exactly one magic tutorial on the internet.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced nervously to the assembled children. “Prepare to witness the incredible, the astounding, the death-defying… sawing of a man in half!”
A wave of weak clapping ensued.
Young Marcheford, who was apparently the volunteer, climbed into the chest as if he were mounting a scaffold with a hanging noose.
“He doesn’t look like he’s been sawed in half before,” Bo said judgmentally, his paws on the fence and his ears at full attention.
“No one gets sawed in half, Bo,” I muttered. “It’s a trick.”
“Then why does he look like he’s about to write his will on the inside of that box?” my dog huffed.
Tall Marcheford produced a large handsaw—wooden-handled, clearly from the workshop—and brandished it with a flourish that nearly took out a balloon.
The children screamed with delight. The volunteer’s eyes went wide.
Gavin’s nostrils sparked. “I think that’s a real saw.”
“Should I call 666?!” Nigel hissed anxiously in our ears.
“It’s gotta be a prop,” Didi said, though she didn’t sound entirely certain.
Tall Marcheford began sawing with theatrical vigor. Young Marcheford screamed and promptly fainted. Several children started crying.
My wolf put a paw over her eyes.
This was even worse than either of us had imagined.
The woman from the workshop rushed over with face paint supplies and began a diversionary campaign on the nearest cluster of distressed kids.
The back door banged open. A figure emerged hastily from the house carrying a tray of sausage rolls. There were mountains of them. They were golden, they were flaky, and they radiated the kind of savory aroma that cut through the afternoon air like a siren call.
Instinct had me looking to my right.
Bo’s entire body had gone rigid.
His nose twitched like it had gained a life of its own. His tail began wagging until it achieved near vertical lift-off. His glazed eyes locked onto the sausage roll tray with the singular focus of a heat-seeking missile acquiring its target.
“No,” I said preemptively as his hind legs found purchase on the fence and began scrabbling desperately.
“I didn’t do anything,” Bo whimpered, rear paws finding the ground.
“You were thinking about it.”
“They do smell incredible,” Gavin mumbled.
My dog licked his chops noisily and began drooling. “It’s well past lunch time.”
Didi shuffled out of the way of the messy drop zone.
“It looks like his resolve is being tested,” the witch said sourly.
“His resolve lasted approximately three and a half hours,” I muttered.
Before Bo could mount a defense, a voice behind us made everyone jump.
“Can I help you?”