Chapter 38
Tess
By the time I convinced the poor pig racing lady I wasn’t planning to sue her and escaped, I had less than fifteen minutes to change into my softball gear and make it to the field. Jack, who’d finally stopped sneezing once the pool water washed the perfume off me, ran to the truck to retrieve the softball trophy before he changed.
My best friend Molly had shown up just in time to see the piglet debacle, and she was still laughing so hard I was afraid she’d hyperventilate.
“Not that funny,” I grumbled, while we changed in the small changing room attached to the bathrooms.
“Yes, it was.”
I grinned. “Okay, yes it was. But I was afraid I was going to be?—”
“Lunchmeat?” She bent over, clutching her stomach.
“Why didn’t you come to practice last night?”
She sighed, her smile fading. “I had to fire Dice.”
Dice, bass guitarist and sometimes drummer for Scarlett’s Letters, had a boatload of talent and a problem with serial romances. She also had such a bad anger management problem that Molly had been forced to warn her she’d be out of the band if she had one more incident.
Apparently, the warning hadn’t worked.
“I’m sorry.” I knew they’d been friends.
“Thanks. Now, let’s go kick Riverton’s collective ass … ets.”
“Assets?”
Molly nodded her head at someone standing behind me. I looked back to see Shelley. My sister’s face was scrunched up in distress.
“Tess, you need to come now. There’s a big problem.”
Another one? How many problems did one pawnshop owner have to face in a week?
I didn’t say that, of course. I just put my ball cap on and took a deep breath. “Lead the way.”
Shelley led the way to our dugout and went straight to the null container that held the trophy. “I opened this to get the trophy out when Uncle Mike asked me for it, so he could give it to two old guys.”
“Okay. And what happened?” I crouched to look into her face. “Shelley, what’s wrong?”
She frowned. “The man. The one who wasn’t dead? Buried at the pitcher’s mound?”
“Yes,” I said encouragingly. “Ace Truckman. What about him?”
“The magic on the trophy is the same as the magic that was on him.”
* * *
Isettled Shelley in the stands with Aunt Ruby. Uncle Mike was up in the announcer’s booth that Dead End had paid too much for, but I’d been outvoted when the resolution came up for approval.
Her news about the trophy had sounded like a huge revelation until I told Jack about it, and he’d just nodded.
“Well, right.”
“What do you mean, right?” Then it hit me. “Oh. Right. The trophy was in his house, where somebody hit him with the stasis spell. It only makes sense that it would have residue of the same magic. Darn. I hoped we’d discovered something.”
We walked while we talked, lining up in front of our dugout for the opening ceremonies, while Riverton did the same in front of the visitors’ dugout.
When Mr. Henry and Mr. Albert shuffled past us toward the umpire at home plate, Jack lifted his head and sniffed, scenting the air. Then he narrowed his eyes and held out an arm to block their way.
“I don’t think so, gentlemen.”
Mr. Henry looked alarmed, but Mr. Albert just looked half-asleep, like usual.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Jack.
“Move aside, young man,” Mr. Albert blustered. “We need to get the trophy to the opening ceremonies.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Jack growled when they tried to push past him, and they both froze.
I knew Jack wouldn’t lay a finger on two helpless old men, but they didn’t know that. Sometimes speaking softly was just as effective as carrying a big stick.
Jack looked at me. “They smell of the same magic as Ace and the trophy.”
“Right. Because they carried it into Beau’s to give me, remember?”
“No. This is fresh.”
Mr. Henry shot a look up into the stands before he put an impassive expression on his face. I followed his gaze and saw … Celine. She was sitting with an older woman who looked a lot like her.
“Oh,” I said, realizing what that might mean. “Remember what Andy said? When Susan asked her about the missing trophy, Celine was offended and told Susan her grandmother helped fabricate the thing with Mr. Henry and Mr. Albert? Celine said she never would have messed with the game or the trophy.”
By this time, Aunt Ruby and Uncle Mike had climbed down to join us. Susan walked over from where she’d been warming up.
“Tess, what’s going on?” my uncle asked.
“These two and their friend the witch have something to do with Ace’s condition,” Jack said.
Mr. Albert protested, but Mr. Henry gave him a weary look and held up a hand. “It’s too late, Chester. Let’s just tell them.” He waved to the witches to come down to the field.
Uncle Mike got the portable microphone hooked up to the sound system so everyone there could hear the story.
It was a whopper.
This was what they told us:
Thirty years ago, when they’d fabricated the trophy, the three of them had been young (I ignored Jack’s look of disbelief at this), drunk, and in love. The witch, Celine the first, had loved both of them, and they’d both loved her. They’d been filled with ideas of honor, good sportsmanship, and a friendly rivalry.
As they’d made the trophy, they’d come up with the rulebook in that very battered book they’d made us swear on. Unbeknownst to them, though, love and honor and good intentions can form a powerful magic when wielded by a witch and a metalworker with Fae ancestors. (Mr. Henry.)
The book and the trophy both became imbued with a kind of enforcement magic: When anyone tried to behave in an unsportsmanlike or dishonorable manner, the magic of these objects would activate and dissuade the prospective perpetrators from any bad actions by making them feel guilty and ashamed.
But then Ace Truckman came along.
Ace wasn’t just a bad man. He was a man who’d never felt guilt and was impervious to shame. When he’d hired Celine to make that bad-luck charm?—
Celine, the older, interjected here. “She is in big trouble for that, too. Don’t think she’s getting off scot-free.”
Celine, the younger, shot me a glum look. “Five hundred hours of community service.”
Before I could go too far down the rabbit hole of wondering what community service a morally gray witch would do, Mr. Henry took up the tale:
“When the magic of the trophy encountered Ace’s bad intentions, and the charm came into the picture—when Ace took it into his house— the trophy exploded.”