Purrfect Rivalry

Excerpt from Witchy Wishes (Neighborhood Witch Committee 3)

Prologue

Skip Brown was whipping through the Haymill neighborhood in South Brooklyn on his messenger bike, delivering fine bread and pastry to some of the less mobile regulars of the family bakery where he earned his keep. Brown’s Better Bread Bakery had been in business for as long as Browns had lived in Brooklyn, which, as far as Skip knew, was pretty much forever.

As a junior member of the Brown baking empire, Skip’s job was to hawk the family wares and, as in this case, make sure bread aficionados up and down Haymill and greater Brooklyn got their bread fix at their earliest possible convenience, preferably in the early morning.

Skip, a liberally pimpled young man, obviously didn’t follow the old marketing shtick that to sell a product, you have to be a product of your product: he looked more like a stick insect than the nicely globular shapes his father and uncles and all the other Browns aspired to. If the Browns were bowling balls, Skip was the only bowling pin, a fact which often irked him.

What also set him apart from the other Browns was the fact that he possessed no baking talent whatsoever, which was one of the reasons his family kept him as far away from the actual baking operation as possible. A non-baking Brown could only jinx things and screw it up for the rest of the dynasty.

And Skip was steering his trusty steel steed along the busy streets of Brooklyn, not far from where the Browns plied their trade, when he happened upon a disturbing scene.

He’d just delivered a small white to Beatrix Yeast, and was on his way to Safflower House to provide Cassandra Beadsmore with her usual order of a dozen assorted buns, muffins, cinnamon rolls and croissants, when he passed a dead-end alley, where some form of altercation was in progress.

Usually Skip liked to keep himself to himself, something he’d learned on these mean streets of Brooklyn. But ever since his good friends the Flummox triplets had started a neighborhood watch, he’d been itching to get in on the action and help make Haymill a safer, more pleasant environment. And part of that was not to pass by a confrontation in a creepy back alley between a black-clad stranger and a large man who was crying out for help.

Skip placed his bike against the graffitied wall and hurried over to lend aid and support.

If the fat man was being mugged by the black-clad figure, he was here to make sure justice was done and the miscreant faced the Brown wrath.

Just to make sure he was up to the task, he’d taken a firm grip on his bicycle pump in his left, and a baguette in his right hand. They were the only weapons at his immediate disposal, and he swung them both in a menacing fashion, calling out, “Hey! Leave that man alone!”

The black-clad figure slowly turned to face him. Well, perhaps not exactly face him, as the assailant’s visage was obscured by some form of black mask.

“What’s going on here?” Skip asked, his heart now beating a mile a minute.

He suddenly found himself wishing he’d taken that self-defense course at the community center his mom had told him about. He could have taken out this person with a leg sweep or a cool move and that would have been that.

Now, seeing that the stranger was holding a very large, very shiny, very scary-looking knife, he lost some of the exuberance that had led him into battle.

“Um, you better drop that thing, buddy,” he called out, starting to feel particularly ill-equipped to take on this hoodlum. Wasn’t there some sort of saying or folk wisdom about bringing a bicycle pump and a French baguette to a knife fight? The general consensus seemed to be that it was probably not a good idea. Unless you were Jackie Chan, of course.

“You better stay out of this, Skip Brown,” said the stranger in a strangely hissing voice. He almost sounded like a snake—if snakes could talk—which, apart from Disney and Harry Potter movies, they obviously couldn’t.

“Back off, buddy,” Skip said, swinging the pump and baguette combo like he meant it.

“You’re going to have to choose,” hissed the man, who was of slight build he now saw. “Do you want to be part of the problem or the solution? If the latter, you better skedaddle.”

“Well, I’m not skedaddling,” said Skip bravely. “You’re the one who should be skedaddling if you know what’s good for you—you-you hoodlum.”

He now glanced at the fat man, who was lying on his back on top of a pile of garbage, his breathing stertorous and obviously in a great deal of pain.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asked, and then proceeded to experience the shock of a lifetime. The fat man wasn’t just any fat man. It was his uncle Gus!

“Call the cops, Skip!” his uncle said in a wheezy and labored voice. “Make sure they catch this bastard!”

“Too late,” hissed the black-clad figure, and produced what could only be described as a sort of sinister chuckle. Then, as if the laws of the natural world didn’t apply to him, he moved away from Skip at breakneck speed, and was soon swallowed up by the darkness that covered the back part of the alley.

“Hey! Where did he go?” Skip asked.

His uncle looked up at him with a pleading expression in his eyes. “Skip, son, I’m not feeling too good. Better call an ambulance.”

Uncle Gus lifted his hand from his belly for a moment, and to his horror Skip saw there was a great deal of blood covering his uncle’s substantial gut.

“He cut me, Skip,” lamented his uncle. “The bastard just gutted me like a friggin pig.”

Skip quickly took out his phone and for the next few seconds busied himself apprising the nice lady from 911 of the facts pertaining to the case.

A hand stole out and his uncle grabbed him by the pant leg. “If I don’t make it—tell your aunt Adelaide I love her,” he said in a croaky voice.

“You can tell her yourself, Uncle Gus,” Skip said, kneeling down next to his relative. “You’re going to be just fine.”

But then his uncle’s round and ruddy face displayed a pained grimace, and he wheezed, “I’m not too sure about that, Skip. I don’t mind telling you I don’t feel fine. In fact I feel downright lousy.”

And then, before he could respond, the light went out in Uncle Gus’s eyes.

Chapter One

Samuel Barkley squeezed out of his Toyota Yaris with some effort and a lot of grumbling on his part. The car—the latest addition to the NYPD motor pool—was a bit on the small side to accommodate Sam’s sturdy frame. Pierre Farrier, his trusty partner and sidekick, had far less trouble emerging from the passenger side of the vehicle.

Then again, Pierre was built along the lines of a sickly grasshopper, while Sam looked like he’d just swallowed the reigning boxing heavyweight.

Sam, his brown hair neatly in place, his piercing blue eyes surveying the scene, and his anvil jaw working, shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said.

“You can say that again,” said Pierre, fingering first his pepper-and-salt mustache and then the small scar on his brow, just beneath his receding hairline. It was the last remnant of the incident that had put him in a coma not that long ago.

“Stop touching your scar,” said Sam, fighting the urge to slap his partner’s hand away.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Pierre. “In times of great stress it starts throbbing.”

“Throbbing?” he asked. “You mean you can still feel the scar?”

“Oh, yes,” said Pierre. “It sends me messages.”

Sam looked up at that. “Messages? What kind of messages?”

Pierre shrugged. “Well, the message that something is seriously wrong. Like now, with this poor schmuck being struck down in this nasty alley.”

“Oh, right,” said Sam. “For a moment there I thought you were going to say you received direct communications from Lord Voldemort or his faithful pet snake Nagini.”

Pierre directed his soulful eyes at him in an expression of hurt. “That’s not funny, Sam. The scar really hurts.”

Sam held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry, buddy. I believe you. And no one is happier than me that you came through this whole ordeal more or less unscathed.” He clapped the other man on the back. “Now why don’t we solve ourselves a murder, huh?”

“Yes, let’s,” Pierre said softly.

It was obvious he was taking this particular crime to heart. As an aficionado of bakery goods in general and Brown’s Bakery in particular, the murder of Gus Brown had hit Pierre very hard. Apparently the man had been something of a latter-day genius with the rolling pin, spatula and piping bag.

“Who found him?” Sam asked.

“Skip Brown, the victim’s nephew.”

Sam jerked his head up. “Not the Skip Brown?”

Pierre nodded. “Yes, the Skip Brown.”

“The Skip Brown that used to work for the Flummox triplets?”

Pierre nodded again, gazing down mournfully at the remains of Gus Brown. “The one and only.”

“Dayum,” Sam muttered, scratching his scalp. “Talk about a small world.”

He now saw that Skip was seated in the back of a nearby ambulance, a cup of something hot and steamy in his hand, a space blanket draped across his bony shoulders, looking sorrowful and clearly in a state of great shock.

“Look at this, Sam,” Pierre’s voice came.

“Mh?” He was still thinking about the odds that Skip, who’d been employed by Edie Flummox and her sisters at one time, would be involved in this heinous crime. When he glanced in the direction Pierre was indicating, he saw that this crime had suddenly turned even more astonishing. On the wall, over the dead man, someone had written in what appeared to be blood: ‘Watch Committee—when will you act? If you don’t take these predators off the streets, I will! I’m watching you, watchers… watching your every move.’

He whistled through this teeth. “Take these predators off the streets. Do you think he means Baker Brown over here?”

“It would appear so,” said Pierre, now kneeling down next to the murdered man. “Murdered with a very sharp object,” he said knowingly.

“Yes, according to Patrolman Daniels he was actually gutted with a knife. Not something you see a lot around these parts.”

“What do you make of this challenge to the watch?” asked Pierre, studying the message daubed on the wall in a crude hand.

“Apparently some concerned citizen doesn’t think the watch is doing enough to keep the streets safe. Always accepting the fact that Gus Brown wasn’t as upstanding a citizen as we all thought he was.”

“He was a fine baker,” said Pierre, a hint of sadness in his voice. “A regular genius with the baking pan. His scones, in particular, were to die for.”

“We better have a chat with the triplets,” said Sam after a pause. “See if they’ve been getting other messages from this murderous freak.”

Pierre nodded, then bit his lower lip. “Are you sure I should come, Sam?”

“Of course you should come. Why wouldn’t you come?”

“Well… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sisters.”

“So? All the more reason to tag along. They’ll be thrilled to see you alive and well.”

Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam. It might be awkward.”

Sam heaved a silent groan. Ugh. He now remembered how Pierre had taken a fancy to Ernestine, and when she had proved unresponsive to his lethal charms, had transferred his affections to Estrella.

“For your information, Stien is currently between boyfriends if that’s what’s got you worried,” he said.

A glimmer of hope appeared in the policeman’s gentle eyes. “And what about Strel?”

“Strel is dating some bar owner at the moment. Dunlop Bard? Runs Puppy Power over on Franklin Avenue? You know the place.”

The hope in Pierre’s eyes died away. “Oh,” he said quietly.

Sam frowned. “Hey, I thought you had the hots for Stien?”

“Well, I like Stien a lot,” said Pierre. “But…”

“But you like Strel even better, is that it?”

Pierre nodded. “Oh, I know she’s way out of my league, Sam. Strel is on her way to becoming a star. She’s going to be the next Taylor Swift and her career is going to take her into the stratosphere, far removed from mere mortals like me.” He gave Sam a sad look. “But one can only dream, right?”

Sam clapped a hand on his partner’s shoulder and growled, “Let’s talk to Skip, and then we’ll visit the triplets.” He crooked an eyebrow. “Unless your scar tells you otherwise.”

But it was clear from Pierre’s mournful expression that this was not the time for levity. Whatever his scar was telling him, it obviously wasn’t a message of joy and good cheer.

Chapter Two

I woke up with a start. It took me a few moments to get my bearings, and to realize what had awakened me. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t my alarm clock, which was a relic from the eighties: an alarm clock radio that was tuned to an eighties music radio station and usually eased me from my usual dreamless state to full wakefulness to the tunes of popular eighties superstars such as Modern Talking, Bonnie Tyler or even The Human League.

Now, however, another singing voice had dragged me from my peaceful slumber, and if I wasn’t mistaken it was my sister Strel’s awful caterwauling that had done the trick.

“Ugh,” I grunted, and covered my face with my pillow in a bid to drown out the terrible noise.

To no avail, of course.

Strel’s shrill voice was so powerful it could easily penetrate a brick wall, or possibly even a concrete underground bunker. Scientists at the Department of Defense’s DARPA would probably be most interested in harnessing its power as a weapon of mass destruction. It could also come in handy in the interrogation of unusually shy terrorists, who would snap like twigs under the strain.

With another tired groan, I swung my legs from between the covers and rubbed my eyes. Ever since Strel had gotten it into her head to revitalize her fledgling singing career, she’d been absolutely intolerable. She’d all but given up on her dream of being the next Katy Perry when a new houseguest had arrived at Casa Cassie, as we liked to call our ancestral home. Helmut Totti was a Belgian singer, vacationing in New York, and of all the places in this fair town of ours he could have chosen to grace with his presence, he’d chosen us.

I dragged my hands through my red mane in an attempt to tame it, smoothed down my Simple Minds T-shirt, and pushed myself up off the bed.

Swinging my door wide, I stalked over to Strel’s room, where the racket seemed to originate.

Without bothering to knock, I barged in and yelled, “Strel! Will you please cut it out?!”

Only then did I see that Strel wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a young man with a slight hint of peach fuzz on his chin—Shaggy Rogers style—and a goofy expression on his face—Scooby-Doo style. The young man was clutching a guitar and was obviously doing the honors of accompanying Strel.

“Oh, hey, honey,” said Strel in her usual chipper way. “Did we wake you?”

“I’m so sorry, Edie,” said the young man who was, of course, none other than Helmut Totti himself. He was smiling apologetically. “We thought it would be a nice treat to wake you guys up with a pleasant little song this morning. You know, put you in a good mood before starting your day.”

“Trying to put Edie in a good mood in the morning is hopeless, Helmut,” said Strel. “She’s Miss Sourpuss and nothing we do will ever change that.”

I planted my hands on my sizable hips. “If you learned how to sing, I might wake up in a good mood for once, and not ready to commit murder.”

“Oh, here we go,” said Strel with an expressive eyeroll. She pushed at her long blond hair, which was draped across her slender shoulders. When I looked closer, I saw that she was actually wearing a flower in her hair, as if channeling Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell, about to conquer Woodstock.

“Why don’t we sing you a nice ballad?” Helmut suggested, and before I could stop him, he struck a chord on his guitar, and the both of them launched into a harrowing and painfully bad rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water.

I pressed my hands to my ears and removed myself from the room as fast as I could, haunted by twin wails of ‘When you’re weary, feeling small.’

Well, they sure were right about that. I was feeling pretty weary right now.

“Why?” I muttered as I hurried out. “In the name of everything that is holy, why, oh, why?”

I almost bumped into my sister Ernestine who had also come out to trace the source of the terrifying noise.

“Is that Strel singing?” she asked as she pushed her glasses further up her nose. Stien is the brainy one in our family. She’s also the legal beagle.

“Yup. She’s found a partner in crime, apparently.”

Stien frowned, her default expression. “A partner in crime? I didn’t know Strel was into crime these days.”

“It’s an expression, Stien. She’s doing a duet with Helmut.”

“Oh,” said Stien, understanding dawning. “I thought I heard a second, even more awful voice dueling with Strel’s.”

I nodded somberly. “We’re doomed. He’s encouraging her, Stien. After everything we did to discourage her, he’s simply adding fuel to the fire.”

Stien shrugged. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he can finally teach her how to sing properly.”

We both listened to the dueling caterwauling for a moment. It sounded like two cats fighting in a back alley for possession of the same white mouse.

We both shook our heads. “No, he can’t,” I said. “No one can.”

Chapter Three

Cassandra Beadsmore—Cassie to her friends and Gran to the triplets—was busily enjoying the early morning in her precious garden. Ever since she’d retired from running a national chain of flower shops to take care of her granddaughters, she’d transferred her love of flowers to her own garden, and had managed to turn it into a feast of floral delight.

She had a greenhouse, where she kept her most precious blooms, and the garden itself was now crisscrossed by small cobblestone pathways that took visitors past every flower, shrub, perennial and tree that would grow in the New York climate and even some that wouldn’t. But such was the power of Cassie’s green thumb that she managed to make even those grow abundantly.

Neighbors up and down Nightingale Street often wondered how she did it, and regularly sought her advice on how to deal with some tricky issue like aphids chomping on their flowers, or weeds threatening to break down the fragile eco-structure of their backyards. She was always happy to help, and had become the go-to person for Gardening First Aid.

She was now knee-deep into yanking out some pesky weeds that were threatening to choke the life out of her rhododendrons, and as she worked, her knees on one of those colorful memory foam kneeling pads, she hummed a pleasant tune.

If she could spend her every waking hour in her beloved garden, she would. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to resist the siren song of creating another business, and had recently turned her home into an Airbnb, taking in paying guests. And since paying guests also like to pay to enjoy a meal at regular intervals, she’d become an innkeeper in these, her golden years.

This week her guests included a moderately famous Belgian singer, who seemed adamant to teach Strel the finer points of his chosen profession. Then there was the Middle Eastern prince, who was in town to learn all he could about America. And of course Jerome Cursons, who was in New York for more prosaic reasons, as he was preparing to go to trial against a large pharmaceutical company.

And Cassie was still humming a happy tune, drowning out the loud ‘singing’ Helmut and Strel were engaged in inside the house, when suddenly a slithery creature appeared in the undergrowth, and reared up to attack her!

She quickly retracted her hand and stared down at the small green-brown snake. “Now what are you doing here?” she asked a little sternly.

The snake stared up at her with its yellow eyes, its forked tongue stealing out of its mouth, then hissed, “I’m coming for you, Cassandra Beadsmore. I’m coming for you and your family.”

She smiled. “You’ve said that before, and yet all you can do is send snakes into my garden. As threats go, not very convincing, wouldn’t you say?”

“This is only the beginning. Just you wait and see,” the serpent hissed.

Cassie couldn’t help but shake her head in abject bewilderment. “If this is the best you can do, permit me to have a good laugh, oh sneaky one.”

“Laugh all you want, Cassie, but I’m here to tell you that your days of lording it over the rest of us are finally over.”

Her smile disappeared. “What do you really want?” she asked.

The snake seemed to grin. “I want to put you down a peg or two. For far too long the Fallon Safflower strand has dominated this town, but no longer. I’m taking my rightful place again.”

“You forfeited your rightful place when you tried to murder Fallon, remember? So please remove yourself from my house before I do it for you.”

She’d gotten up and was now towering over the small snake.

“Oh, feeling all high and mighty, are we? Well, not for much longer. Your days are over, Cassandra Beadsmore. Yours and those of your filthy brood.”

“Oh, just go away,” said Cassie, and flicked her fingers just so.

A thin stream of sparks emanated from her fingertips and flashed down in the direction of the snake.

“Mark my words, Cassie. I’m coming for you!” the snake whistled, then jumped when enveloped with the sparks, and vanished without a trace.

“What was that?” suddenly a voice sounded behind Cassie. She turned, and found herself gazing into Edie’s green eyes. As usual, her granddaughter was dressed in black from head to toe: black T-shirt, black jeans and black combat boots. Even her eyes were gunked up with too much black eyeliner.

“Nothing,” she assured Edie. “Just some pesky weeds.”

But Edie wasn’t fooled. Her expression darkened. “Was that a snake?”

Cassie waved an airy hand. “Of course not. Like I said, a nasty little creeper. I took care of it.”

“Oh, Gran,” said Edie with a sigh. “It’s Tisha again, isn’t it? What’s with her and snakes?”

Cassie was back to pulling out weeds. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, honey. Now can you start breakfast? I’m sure our guests would like to eat.”

But it was obvious Edie wasn’t ready to let this go, for she gave her one of her trademark grave looks. “Gran,” she insisted. “We have to talk about this.”

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