Page 1 of Eye on the Ball

1

Tess

The crisis began with a softball rivalry, a pregnant witch, and poisoned popcorn.

Then things got bad.

* * *

Brenda Pennywhistle, CPA, stalked into my pawnshop wearing a severe black pantsuit and an air of fierce determination. Either I’d bungled my books (she was doing my fourth quarter of last year taxes), or she was here to discuss the annual town softball game. She’d been team captain for the past four years, mostly because nobody else wanted to do it.

Brenda liked to be in charge of things.

She had short dark hair, dark brown skin, and serious muscle. I’d always wished my arms looked like hers.

“Hey, Brenda. What’s up?”

She narrowed her lovely violet eyes at me. “Ace Truckman is on his way hereright this very minute. He wants to tell us all about how he’s going to build apermanent cabinetfor the annual softball game trophy, since they’ve won thepast four years in a row.”

Brenda liked to speak inproclamations,with a lot ofemphasison certainwords.

(Oh, jeez, now I was doing it. Thinking it. Whatever.)

I shrugged. “They can build whatever they want. When we win this weekend, we’ll just take our trophy, and they can fill their permanent cabinet with whatever else they have handy.”

She grinned and tapped one finger on her pursed lips. “That’s actually true. Huh. Tess, it’s not like you to be the voice of reason.”

“Hey! I’m always the voice of reason!”

“Like the time you wanted to sneak into the Riverton locker room and put itching powder in their underwear?”

“I was sixteen!” Admittedly, not my finest moment, but … teenager brain. I’d also gone through a brief but wholehearted Goth phase until Uncle Mike had remarked mildly that black lipstick made my teeth look yellow.

The all-black clothes and funky jewelry went out and whitening strips came in. Even as a teen, I was adaptable.

“Ace is bringing two of his cousins, not Mutt and Probie, different cousins, and says they get to play by virtue of being his cousins, even though they live inOklahomaand not Riverton.”

I shrugged. “We’ve always been flexible with the eligibility rules. If they’re really related—and that should be easy to tell, all the Truckmans look the same—then sure. Why not?”

“I don’t like it,” she muttered. “Feels like cheating. And this is the same Ace Truckman who tried to claim totally fraudulent expenses on his taxes, not that I told you that.”

Wow.

For Brenda to even hint at something to do with a client’s confidential tax information, Ace must have tried something really shady. Brenda took her duty to the tax code seriously.

Dead End, our tiny corner of Florida, population five thousand unless we’re evacuating the children because of a threat of annihilation by Fae queen, operates under a special charter that was deeded to Black Cypress County before the U.S. was even a country. That special charter means that we’re not subject to most state or federal laws, but everybody everywhere has to pay taxes.

That adage about death and taxes is even true here.

The chimes over the door rang, and Sapphire Malcolm walked in. I hadn’t seen the Dead EndGazetteeditor since she’d returned from her most recent travels in Europe. She was in her early thirties and had always seemed effortlessly cool to stay-at-home me, since she’d backpacked around the world for five years after college. When her dad had stepped down from being theGazette’sowner/editor-in-chief/only reporter because of health issues, she’d cheerfully taken over. She always said that having Dead End as her home base gave her confidence in her travels.

“Sapphire! Nice to see you. How was France?” I walked over to give her a hug, since she was safe for me to touch. We’d been friendly in school before my “gift” had kicked in. I really liked Sapphire, even though she hadn’t yet named Dead End Pawn the business of the month in theGazette. Clearly just an oversight. Also, it was hard to argue with last month’s pick, Lauren’s Deli, which made the best sandwiches in the state.

She held up a hand when I reached out, her eyes wary. “Still safe? I really don’t want to know how I’ll die.”

Yeah. That was my “gift.” Mycurse. The first time I touched someone, I could sometimes see how they were going to die.

“Still safe,” I said, trying not to let the twinge of sadness show.

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