I pocketed my wand, extracted a pair of gloves from my bag, and tugged on the old appliance’s dented aluminum handle.
The interior was neat and organized. I poked at the assortment of deli meats and cheeses, checked the purchase dates, and sniffed the bottle of cereal cream. Nothing was close to spoiling. Closing the refrigerator, I shifted my attention to the small pantry. Decorative dishware took up most of the shelves behind glass-fronted doors, and the usual dry goods were stacked behind the others. A chest freezer occupied the back wall. Its heavy lid fought against being opened until the suction finally gave way with a whoosh.
A blast of cold air offered a welcome respite from the stale heat. Inside, two squarish wire baskets were half filled with paper-wrapped packages stamped with the local abattoir’s logo and labelled in black marker. Below the baskets, bagged in plastic, were larger packages containing pork and beef roasts. I went to close the lid.
Light coming over my shoulder highlighted a peculiar shadow in one of the clear bags. I separated the wire baskets, reached for the plastic, and gave a quick tug. I had to stifle a scream.
A nose.
I had grabbed a frozen nose, and it wasn’t a pig’s nose. Those were wrapped and clearly labeled in the basket at my elbow. I pressed the back of my free hand to my mouth and frantically scanned the shelf to my left for something to count. A full blown panic attack would not help me or the Pearmains.
Twelve. Twelve neatly stacked dessert plates.
When I was done counting and gagging, I reached forward, pinched the plastic, and turned the bag. A severed head, its pasty gray skin covered in a fine layer of frost, stared out, eyes unseeing.
“What the…?” I jiggled the wire baskets farther apart, took out my phone, and snapped a few photos. Needing better light, I removed the bagged head and placed the frozen bundle on the floor. Carefully.
Shit. I dropped the freezer lid and stepped into the kitchen, searching the countertops for something to cut the plastic. Poultry shears. Grabbing them by the handles, I kneeled on the faded black-and-white squares of linoleum and cut open the thick plastic bag. Flakes of ice tumbled over my knees. I brushed them away and pulled the crinkling material from the face.
The long nose and pointed ears mimicked the features carved on the picture frames in the sitting room. I was able to take another photograph before the bile rose again.
Stepping to the window at the far end of the narrow room, I opened the bottom sash and sucked in gulps of apple-scented air. Catatonic orchardists and a severed head were a couple steps above my pay grade. I was trained to investigate environmentally-based complaints and spats between organic and traditional farmers, not death.
Not murder.
I gripped the windowsill, sank into a crouch, and leaned my head against one arm. I ignored the buzzing from my phone. I’d have to get the Provincial authorities involved now, but—
“I see you found the heads,” a man’s voice said.
My heart damn near punched a hole in my chest. I pivoted on my knees and grabbed the shears I’d left on the floor. Angling my gaze upward, the sunshine slanting through the back door effectively blocked out the man’s facial features and endowed him with a temporary halo.
“I’m Tanner Marechal,” the voice continued. “Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resources. And who are you?”
I palmed the shears and took a deep breath, standing quickly and pivoting so the sun wasn’t in my eyes. The better angle revealed a man clad in regulation-green pants and a light khaki shirt.
“Calliope Jones,” I answered. “I work for the island’s Agricultural Commission.”
Birds landing on the feeder outside the kitchen window made a sudden racket, pecking for seeds and dominance.
I shifted my grip on my weapon as my heart beat twice for every second. “Could we exchange IDs or something? This is a crime scene and—”
“The uniform and hat aren’t obvious enough?” One sable eyebrow raised, slow and deliberate.
I held my ground. The man with the shoulder-length hair might be dressed as an employee of a province-wide government agency, but this was my island and my investigation and death was in a bag on the floor behind me.
Plus, he was wearing flip-flops.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” I said, straightening my spine and mimicking his wide, confident stance. “And in my official capacity as steward of the island’s orchards, I’d rather err on the side of offending you than ruffling local feathers.”
Note to self: Make sure someone adds ‘She was brave’ to my tombstone.
He didn’t shift his gaze off my face while he unbuttoned the breast pocket of his shirt and removed an embossed identification badge. I tried to make a mental sketch of his features, in case I had to describe him to the RCMP, but I didn’t get farther than topaz eyes and minty aftertaste.
After placing the shears on the countertop and peeling off the gloves, I extended my hand, palm up. Tingles darting across my skin alerted me to the presence of magic.
Ooh. My gaze went back and forth, from the man’s face and the crystalline clarity of his eyes to the shiny badge. I confirmed his name, memorized his employee number, and when I stroked the pad of my middle finger across the back of the metal, one of those tingles pulsed rapidly before piercing my skin.
Ouch. I flipped the badge. A pentacle glowed green then started to fade. Today was my day for meeting other Magicals.
“So. Natural Resources is hiring
