Demon Song

no grape-growing background came in and set up shop. They took over a little private winery and planted all new vines. It was very hush-hush and nobody really gave them a chance of success. Everyone expected them to do some big-time begging for press. Surprisingly, they didn’t seek attention. They wouldn’t even give interviews to the major wine magazines. There was a lot of buzz that they’d been in negotiations with the state growers’ association and the EPA about whatever they were doing, and nearly every week some scandal sheet would claim to have the inside track on what sort of wine the sisters were making.

Then they started entering European wine competitions. The little California start-up took gold medals in both the red and white categories. But no one wrote or spoke about the wine itself—even the judges of the contests kept silent. A couple of French and Italian winemakers’ groups protested, as did a consortium of Australian companies, and the courts got involved. The sisters’ company insisted the court records be sealed because of trade secrets— and they were.

In the end the sisters gave up the medals, which ended the case with the nature of the wine still concealed. There was a full-blown riot in the press. Nobody in the public had tasted the wine. Nobody could find it. Nobody could beg, borrow, or steal it.

After all that, Saturday night was the big event—the official, very exclusive, public debut. The wine was named Witches’ Brew and everybody who was anybody was going to be there. Connoisseurs from all over the world had been offering up to six figures for a single ticket, if Internet reports could be believed. But there were none to be had. And each and every one of the few legitimate tickets—like the one in my now-shaking hand—was engraved with the name of the guest.

“Oh, before I forget.” Dawna took the ticket away from me, turned it over, and pulled a strip of cellophane from one corner. “You need to put your right thumb there and hold it for five seconds.”

Okay, I was curious. I did as she asked. I felt an odd sensation on my skin, a sort of tickle. When I picked up my thumb after a count of five there was a perfect impression of my fingerprint on the gold foil, as though it was engraved. “Biometrics?”

“Of a magical variety,” Dawna replied. “They really want to make sure nobody crashes the party. You can’t scan or photocopy the ticket. It comes up blank.”

Wow. This was just so … wow. “Who did you have to kill or screw to get your hands on these?”

“No killing, no screwing, and very sorry, but no telling.” She stuck out her tongue and unlocked her seat belt. “I’m off to get you lots of books. Enjoy staring at the pretty gold letters and thinking of what you’re going to wear.”

“Uh-huh.” I really couldn’t take my eyes off the ticket. I liked wine and I’d been following the story for two full years, ever since I saw the first little page 10 blurb in the Times. I had to taste that wine. I already had an order in with my local store for a bottle when one became available. Now I had the chance to drink a glass before nearly everyone else in the world. Wow.

I only realized that Dawna had left the car when I saw her halfway across the parking lot, heading for the library entrance.

Well, either I could sit here and keep staring at the ticket until my eyes bled or I could do something constructive. First on the list was calling Gran.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t home. She’d been home a lot less since she’d moved, but I was glad she was spending time with friends. I waited for the beep, then said, “Hi, Gran. Sorry I missed you. I’ve got great news. Queen Lopaka said that Mom’s problem was being separated from the ocean. She convinced the judge to move Mom to the Isle of Serenity to finish her sentence. They’re going to get her into alcohol treatment and give her counseling. Isn’t that wonderful?” God, I hoped she thought so. “I’ll be out of town this weekend with Dawna and Emma, but give me a call. My phone should be on.”

I clicked off the call and heard the chime that told me someone had called while I was leaving the message. Typical. I expected it to be Gran because that usually happens. But the number was one I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t even a California area code.

I called my voice mail and heard a male voice: “Ms. Graves? This is Mick Murphy.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I know you’ve been working really hard on our behalf, but Molly and I have been talking and we’re starting to think that … well, that maybe it would be better to just stop this whole thing. It’s ruining our life. It really is. I don’t know the laws in California, but I’d imagine there’s a way to refuse a bequest in a probate. I know there is here in Arkansas. Anyway, I just wanted to call and let you know. We’ll be calling the lawyer tomorrow to see how to get the paperwork started. Thanks again. We both appreciate it.”

Oh, crap. I mean, I understood what he meant. My bequest was a major pain in the butt—just thinking about owning a building and being responsible for the grass cutting, the perpetually leaky roof, and all of the other things that I usually had handled by the owner. His bequest was just cash, but it was a lot of cash.

And none of us knew the reason Vicki had left the Murphys all that money. Even Vicki didn’t know, though she insisted there was one.

I hit the calls-received list and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Mick? It’s Celia Graves.”

He let out a small, embarrassed breath of laugh. “You know, I was actually relieved when I got your voice mail. I didn’t want to have to defend our decision.”

I wasn’t going to pick on the guy. “Hey, it’s hard. I understand. The whole idea of that kind of money messes with your head.”

The sound he made was a sort of laugh but really closer to a donkey bray. “It isn’t my head as much as everyone else’s. The calls have been non-stop since it made the press here.”

“Press? What press? Nobody was supposed to know about the probate while the court case was going on.”

“This is a small town, Ms. Graves. Nothing, and I mean nothing, goes unnoticed in Fool’s Rush. Someone like your investigator comes to town and everyone knows the story before lunch.”

I winced. I knew all about bad press and people calling at all hours. “Everybody in town has probably called asking for loans, huh?”

“Or trying to sell me something I don’t need or want. People started out happy for us, but now they’re getting aggressive and pissy. I mean, yeah, it’d be nice to give my girls some security—a college education and a trust fund. Maybe buy a new house or expand the restaurant. But we get by okay. It’ll get worse if we keep going. I know it—”

A noise started in the background on his phone, making it hard to hear the last few words. “Sorry. I couldn’t hear that last part. There’s a really odd sound in the background, like a cat yowling on a fence.”

He let out a burst of sound that was part laughter and part struggling not to laugh. “It’s sad, but that really is what it sounds like. I’m at the school Christmas pageant. I didn’t want to take the call in the auditorium, so I stepped into the hallway. You just heard my daughter Beverly singing a solo. I love my baby to pieces, but she can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I know the choir director wants to be fair and give everyone a chance, but it’s torture to listen to.”

My face felt hot because that’s just what Gran and Mom used to say about me. “I can’t really comment because I have the same affliction and remember really well the music teacher wanting to be fair with me. I wished she would have been realistic, not fair. If anything, Beverly sounds better than I did. Does your younger daughter … Jody, was it? Does she sing any better?”

There was a creaking sound and the background music dimmed. He must have gone back into the hallway. “It’s Julie and yeah, she has a better voice. She got most of the talent in the family, in fact. I love them both, but they’re very different girls. Beverly’s kind of standoffish and scored nearly zero on the standard paranormal tests. But Julie is outgoing, smart, can sing and dance, and has an affinity with ghosts.”

I felt a cold chill crawl up my spine. “She’s a necromancer?”

“Nah,” he said, and I breathed a little sigh. “Does a little channeling. Remember I said at the Will reading that my granny’s ghost stayed in the house after she died to show us where her Will was?” I did and said so. “Julie communicated with her to get the information. She was just a little thing back then, but it was pretty spooky to watch. It doesn’t seem to bother her as much now that she’s older.”

I was getting an awful feeling there was a really good reason why Vicki picked this particular family. Two daughters, one twelve and one eight, one who was odd and couldn’t sing, the other talented, with an affinity for the