Page 38 of Bewitched By the Wicked Witch
"Cause of death?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew the frustrating answer.
The coroner adjusted his glasses with the nervous energy of someone about to deliver particularly bad news. "Undetermined," he replied, frustration creeping into his nasal tone. "No visible wounds, no signs of trauma or struggle. Toxicology came back cleaner than a confession booth on Sunday. It's as if she just... stopped living."
"Magic-related?" I asked, though the shimmering residue made the question rhetorical.
"Most definitely," the coroner admitted, pushing his oversized glasses up his nose while staring at the body with the expression of someone trying to solve a puzzle missing half its pieces. "Despite being thoroughly dead, she has this rather unusual habit that's been keeping the night shift on edge."
"Unusual how?" I asked, my investigator instincts sensing something important lurking beneath his obvious discomfort.
"Well," he cleared his throat nervously, "she hums. Not constantly, mind you, but at the most inconvenient moments. Yesterday's selection was 'Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo,' which really adds an extra layer of unsettlingness when you're trying to conduct a professional autopsy."
I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry, did you just tell me that the corpse has a playlist?"
"Never in thirty years of this profession have I encountered a deceased individual with such musical inclinations," he continued, shuddering visibly. "Makes onequestion their career choices when fingers are deep in thoracic exploration and suddenly Disney tunes start echoing from the examination table."
"Well, that's delightfully macabre," I said, filing away this bizarre detail for later analysis. "Any pattern to her song selections?"
"Children's songs, mostly. Some lullabies. Yesterday she favored us with 'Ring Around the Rosie,' which felt particularly ominous given the circumstances."
I nodded grimly, my suspicions about magical interference now confirmed beyond doubt. This wasn't just murder, it was a killing born of twisted sorcery and malevolent intent, with apparently musical side effects. The same forces that had targeted the other girls were leaving their signature in increasingly disturbing ways.
As I studied the magical residue more closely, something nagged at me like a persistent itch. The pattern of the marks, the specific way the life force had been drained, the post-mortem musical performances, this wasn't amateur hour magic. This required knowledge of advanced dark arts, the kind taught in specialized circles or passed down through old pureblood families like treasured heirloom recipes.
Thanking the coroner for his illuminating presentation, I strode out of the morgue with my mind racing faster than a greyhound on espresso. The magical nature of Beverly's death had deepened the mystery while providing crucial clues about our perpetrator's skill level. Someone with serious magical education was behind this, someone who either enjoyed adding performative touchesto their murders or was following a specific ritual pattern that required musical accompaniment.
Either way, I had a growing suspicion about where to find answers, and it wasn't going to be pleasant.
The realization that I needed to confront the town's power structure directly hit me like a revelation wrapped in determination. If someone with advanced magical training was behind these murders, chances were excellent they had connections to the very people who'd been stonewalling my investigation from the beginning.
Time to shake some trees and see what rotten fruit fell out.
The town council meeting was in full swing when I burst through the double doors like a man with a mission and a very short fuse. The animated chatter died instantly as every head swiveled toward me, expressions ranging from curious to openly hostile. At the head of the polished oak table sat Reid Bishop, his face settling into a mask of barely concealed annoyance at my dramatic entrance.
"Agent Renshaw," he drawled, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone who'd rather be anywhere else dealing with anyone else. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your unannounced and rather ostentatious arrival?"
I strode forward with purpose, planting my handsfirmly on the polished wood and meeting Bishop's gaze head-on. "I'm here because you've been playing an impressive game of bureaucratic hide-and-seek with my requests for information, Councilman. Information that's vital to solving the case of four missing girls and one very musical corpse."
A ripple of surprised murmurs moved through the assembled council members like a wave of scandalized whispers. Bishop's eyes narrowed with the focus of a predator sizing up potential prey.
"I assure you, Agent, we've been entirely cooperative with your inquiries," he said with the smooth confidence of someone who'd practiced this speech. "Perhaps the fault lies in your own investigative methodology rather than our administrative processes."
I barked out a laugh that echoed in the suddenly tense room. "Cooperative? Is that what we're calling it when you stonewall me at every turn and spend more energy redirecting suspicion onto innocent parties than actually helping solve murders?"
Bishop's nostrils flared with barely controlled irritation. "If you're referring to that Blackstone woman, I hardly think 'innocent' is the appropriate descriptor given her family's rather colorful history."
"Her name is Sage," I bit out, feeling anger simmer beneath my professional veneer. "And she's contributed more meaningful progress to this investigation than your entire council combined, which frankly isn't setting a very high bar."
A portly man with an impressive walrus mustache harrumphed indignantly, his chestpuffing out like an offended peacock. "I say, young man, that's quite the accusation to level at dedicated public servants! We've been working tirelessly to get to the bottom of this unfortunate matter."
I turned toward him with raised eyebrows and my most skeptical expression. "Is that so, Councilman...?"
"Pemberton," he supplied proudly, straightening his vest. "Archibald Pemberton, of the esteemed Pemberton shipping and maritime empire."
"Ah yes, the Pembertons," I said with mock recognition, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "Didn't your great-grandfather build that empire smuggling cursed artifacts and trafficking endangered magical creatures? Quite the impressive family legacy of ethical business practices."
Pemberton's face cycled through several shades of red before settling on an alarming puce that suggested either apoplectic rage or a minor cardiac event. "Why I never, how dare you?—"
I cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Spare me the righteous indignation, Councilman. I'm not here to conduct a historical audit of your family's questionable entrepreneurial choices. I'm here to find out what this council actually knows about the missing girls and why you're all so enthusiastically invested in pinning the blame on Sage."
