Curse Strings Read online

  Curse Strings

  A Widow’s Bay Novel

  Rebecca Regnier

  Text copyright ©2019

  Rebecca Regnier All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law or for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  The Witch That Got Away

  Up Next - Intermittent Casting

  A Note From Rebecca

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  There was trouble afoot in the form of German Potato Salad.

  I walked up to the former Moose Lodge and the trouble had a distinct odor.

  I snuck up as close as I could to the brain trust as they pondered the potato salad catastrophe.

  “Can we salvage any of it?” Grand Poobah Phillip Lockwood said as he looked at three rank and file members. They stared back at him with vacant eyes. Oh wait, was it Governor Poobah Lockwood? I could never keep it straight since the Moose Lodge continued to go through name changes.

  Whatever official titles they held before their names, in their hands they held a disaster comprised of bad eggs, bad mayo, or just bad mojo.

  “We have thirty-seven gallons and we’ve tested three tubs, randomly.”

  “And?”

  “Uh, well Keith, tell the Governor your official report.”

  I followed their gaze and there was Keith, in considerable discomfort, a few feet away. It didn’t look like it was going to take long before his taste test led to a full-on system meltdown. His lips were pressed tight into a grimace. I could only imagine the intestinal discomfort of eating something that I could smell from my unobtrusive spot behind a mini-van.

  This was the first tip I’d received from Derek Heisenberg. He was disgruntled member of the lodge. The source of his frustration stemmed from the fact he had downed vampire blood in hopes of becoming powerful, mysterious, and fit. It hadn’t worked, so now, he was promising to feed me tips on anything newsworthy happening in his lodge.

  Today, he’d let me know that planning for the Testicle Festival had hit a potato salad sized snag.

  I was there in my capacity as a reporter, to get the facts, and to let potential Testicle Festival attendees know that there was something rotten in Denmark or, well, Michigan in this case.

  As Keith mustered up the courage to explain that the mustard, or something else, had gone bad, I presented myself and a list of probing questions.

  “Mr. Lockwood, can you tell our readers and viewers why there are, by my count, over thirty tubs of potato salad here in the parking lot?”

  “Great, just great, so glad to see you Marzie Nowak. I’m not surprised you got wind of this.”

  “To be fair, Phil, anyone in a two-block radius would easily get wind of it.” Steve waived a hand in front of his nose. He wasn’t wrong.

  “For the record?”

  “Look, for the record we have rancid potato salad. It’s not murder. You seem to like murder; why don’t you run along and find one of those, sweetheart.”

  Grrr. Sweetheart.

  “Mr. Lockwood, what’s the plan for handling the potato salad? What impact will it have on offerings for festival-goers?”

  “It’s potato salad, we’ll double up on baked beans.”

  “Well, people really do like their potato salad though.” Steve addressed this comment to Lockwood, who promptly smacked him hard on the shoulder.

  “Ow,” he muttered and rubbed his shoulder.

  “What’s the plan? Will you be canceling the festival?”

  “No, things are exactly on target. This is the Testicle Festival, not the Potato Salad Festival, so there’s no impact whatsoever. We’re serving delicious fried bull testicles, that has not changed. And in terms of financial impact, that is a private matter between anointed members of the lodge, not your or the media’s concern.”

  “Oh, and we’ve got chicken gizzards too. Don’t forget to put that in the story too,” Steve added politely. He was being nice, a rarity when it came to members of the lodge and me. I gave him a thank you smile and then returned to grilling the Poobah, uh, governor.

  “How can the public be sure that what you serve at the festival meets proper food safety standards?”

  “Safety is our number one priority.”

  “Will you be throwing out all these tubs to be safe? What caused it? Bad mayo? Improper preparations? Improper food storage? Expired ingredients?” I fired one question after another in hopes of getting enough to use for my story.

  “As I said, not all of the potato salad is impacted by this minor inconvenience.”

  “I heard half a dozen lodge members got sick after, ah, taste testing.”

  “As I said, there is nothing to worry about. Things are proceeding beautifully on schedule for the most epic festival ever thrown in the Upper Midwest.”

  “So, other than the tainted potato salad, all plans are proceeding as normal?”

  “Please refrain from using the word tainted.” Phillip Lockwood was using every fiber of his being not to lose his temper in front of my camera. It was impressive, but also thin; I knew he was sick of me by the veins popping in his neck.

  “But it is.”

  “Listen to me, Marzie Nowak. I know, and you know, exactly what happened here.” Lockwood was red in the face. He was agitated when I’d walked up, but clearly my questions had pushed him over the edge.

  “Here’s exactly what happened. Either the eggs we used were from cursed chickens, which is very, very likely, or the growing presence of your cackling coven or crones caused otherwise good ingredients to curdle, thus ruining gallons and gallons of the best potato salad this side of Illinois.”

  “Excuse me, cursed chickens? Is that what you’re saying? For the record?”

  I had no intention of reporting his ridiculous allegations. I knew he hated the Distinguished Ladies Club, and he was happy to place blame at our feet.

  “Yeah, cursed chickens, that you’re responsible for. Why don’t you put that in your report?”

  “Phillip, I will not be reporting on that and you ought to thank me. It sounds unhinged. Isn’t it more likely that the refrigeration failed?”

  “Which is also something to lay directly at the feet of your Distinguished Ladies Club. I would not put it past you to hex our major appliances!”

  “This isn’t about the DLC. It’s about an update for festival-goers.” I remained calm in the face of the hex allegation.

  “I don’t have time to waste anymore. All further comments will come through Man Cave Dot Com. Yooper Man is the only non-biased, fair, quality news in Chippewa County. You’re a hack and everyone knows you chase murders and gore since it sells papers. Disgusting.”

  I stood ther
e flabbergasted at the level of hate Phillip Lockwood directed at me and my beloved friends. And Yooper Man, whose real name was Weston Redman, was the furthest thing from non-biased. He hated me and the DLC. It was clear from his reports. My calm demeanor started to shake loose.

  “Phillip, all the DLC works hard to help Widow’s Bay, and even though you don’t deserve it, I’m going to leave out your wild stories of cursed poultry or whatever. You sound unhinged.”

  “Yeah, well see then, making up news as you see fit. How convenient for you.”

  I took a moment and gathered my thoughts on just what I was going to report. I laid them out for Lockwood so he could dispute what he wanted.

  “I report the facts, here are the facts as I see them.”

  I turned on my phone and started a live report.

  “Marzie Nowak here for Your U.P. News. New developments this morning for the upcoming Testicle Festival.

  Approximately forty gallons of potato salad, prepared for the festival, appear to have gone rancid overnight. Lodge Governor, Phillip Lockwood had several theories as to why the side dish went bad, including a bad ingredient or two. Lockwood vows all food will be ready and safe for attendees. Which, according to Lockwood, could be in the thousands on the opening day of the first festival celebrating fried cattle testicles in Upper Michigan.”

  Lockwood stood, hands-on-hips as I updated viewers for Your U.P. News. I turned and fired off a question.

  “Mr. Lockwood, will you share your plan for a replacement side dish?”

  “You already heard, we’re going to have baked beans, and any further comment will be through the true news source of Chippewa County, Man Cave Dot News.”

  Another member jumped through the back of the shot and yelled, “YOOPER MAN FOREVER!” I ignored it.

  “We’ll bring you updates as the situation develops. Marzie Nowak, Your U.P. News.”

  “More like Up Yours News,” Lockwood added as I turned off the camera.

  There was nothing more to be done with Lockwood and the lodge.

  I headed back to my Jeep. Despite the amount of personal animosity Lockwood had for the DLC, and me I knew that I had the story first and accurately.

  Yooper Man—Weston Redman—was going to be second to the party, for once. And he was a lodge member! Ha. Take that.

  My smug feeling was short-lived.

  I had a sinking feeling: cursed chickens laying rotten eggs? I mean, my coven had no idea how to curse farm animals, at least I hoped they didn’t. We were just learning how to use our wands and brooms!

  But a part of me worried that Lockwood’s wild accusations were spot-on accurate.

  Chapter 2

  The next day, the festival was in full swing, and there were hundreds of people, once again in Widow’s Bay. This time, instead of sampling of witches and magic, they were getting testicles and gizzards.

  It was a downgrade in my book, but we had to accept it. The town council had agreed to give the spring town festival to the lodge and that was that. Beltane plans had been supplanted by, ugh, well, a lot of deep-fried meats.

  The crowds had started to arrive for the four-day extravaganza, but it hadn’t been smooth sailing.

  Another dispute had broken out, and no surprise, it was between my coven and the organizers who’d usurped us. I wasn’t in the center of it this time; instead, I attempted to let it play out and cover it for Your U.P. News.

  And as far as I could see, there weren’t any vampires or werewolves involved, so I didn’t have to do my other job, as an early warning system for supernatural chaos.

  Ridge Schutte—Congressmen Ridge Schutte—may be an enemy of the DLC, but he was as human as they came.

  “What the heck is this?” Ridge was not happy. He was waving his arms in the direction of three unauthorized booths.

  Pauline, Georgianne, and Tatum stood defiantly behind the counters of the row they’d set up on Georgianne’s stretch of sidewalk, in front of her store, The Broken Spine.

  These women knew how to throw a community festival. Whether they were sanctioned was not their concern. Ridge was not having it; he’d done his best to take control of Widow’s Bay away from the crones and back to his cronies.

  “Well, Georgianne here is selling lovely Widow’s Bay postcards and t-shirts. Tatum has her special Widow’s Bay Brews, and I’m helping Miss Frances with a doughnut stand.” Pauline gave her biggest smile to Ridge. His face was getting redder by the minute.

  Pauline was being diplomatic, cheerful, and pleasant in the face of Ridge’s increasing anger.

  I hovered on the periphery, wondering if this would rise to the level of a story for Your U.P. News.

  My friends and business owners believed Ridge had done all he could to cut the Distinguished Ladies Club out of this event. He was the one in charge of issuing permits, for who could have a booth, and who could not.

  Technically, the vending booths that Georgianne, Tatum, and Pauline had set up were violating the rules.

  Day One of the Testicle Festival had brought the crowds, but the jury was still out on whether the crowds were happy with the offerings. My stories could turn the tide: if people read it was going well, more would come, if it looked like a disaster, the festival could be dead in the water.

  I put on my reporter’s hat and did my best to be impartial. My own feelings had to stay out of this.

  Your U.P. News readers and viewers had gotten used to my reports from Widow’s Bay. As much as I wanted to go in there and tell Ridge to calm down, I knew my place. I had to give the readers and viewers both sides of the story. I plowed ahead with my questions.

  “Representative Schutte! I’m live on Facebook for Your U.P. News, can I get an interview about the festival opening night?”

  “Sure, Miss Nowak, The Pure Liquid Testicle Festival Presented by the Benevolent Independent Order of The Buck is an unmitigated hit!”

  Ridge looked into my phone camera and recited that mouthful of a name.

  “Catchy, I’ve never heard of the Benevolent Independent Order of The Buck, what happened to The Moose?”

  “As an organization, the indigenous buck more closely represents our commitment to community, fraternity, volunteerism, and wholesome family values. Moose are just kinda big and dumb, am I right?” Ridge looked into the camera and laughed at his own joke.

  “What about the report that the Widow’s Bay Moose chapter was refused entry and that’s why you changed—”

  “—Miss Nowak, do you really want to focus on the negative, like all the media? Come now, the Pure Liquid Testicle Festival Presented by the Benevolent Independent Order of the Buck is great for Widow’s Bay’s economy and a wonderful family fun event for our town. Naming rights were generously purchased by Pure Liquid, meaning we’re able to keep the costs down for attendees.”

  I knew darn well Ridge and his cronies had swiped Beltane weekend out from under us and replaced it with his more masculine—uh, culinary—event, but it was done. We had to move on, and I had to cover the facts, not stew in my anger that he’d pulled a fast one.

  “Have you tried it? They taste like chicken!” Ridge smiled again into the camera with a fork full of fried, uh, something.

  “Thank you, Representative Schutte. More coverage from downtown Widow’s Bay as the festival continues.” I was doing all I could not to say the darn name on camera.

  While Phillip Lockwood was ready to lose his cool on camera, at least Ridge understood that, as a public official, it was better to at least try to be reasonable for my news reports.

  I watched as something caught Ridge’s eye. Georgianne, Tatum, and Frances went back to serving customers at their booths, despite Ridge’s near citizen arrest.

  Ridge though had spotted the police chief. It looked like he was going to take his complaint to the next level.

  “Chief Marvin, over here! Immediately.”

  I watched as Ridge directed Police Chief Budd Marvin to the three booths, operated by my coven mates.


  “These booths are not sanctioned, and I want them torn down, immediately.”

  Ridge Schutte was not Bud Marvin’s boss, but Ridge Schutte never let that stop him from ordering anyone around. Marvin hesitated. His boss was Mayor Candy Hitchcock and certainly she would be against treating Georgianne, Pauline, and Tatum like criminals for operating booths at a community festival.

  The air felt charged. Every player in this scene was now waiting to see if the Chief of Police was going to slap the cuffs on Widow’s Bay’s most prominent business owners.

  “I’d start rolling on that, Marzie.”

  It was a male voice, low but vaguely familiar. It was right in my ear and I whipped around to see the source.

  I recognized him immediately and my hand went up to my hair to smooth it. I had a brief flash of hope that I looked all right.

  Because it was Garrett Dewitt, my boss, and owner of Your U.P. News, paying a personal visit to the Your U.P. News Widow’s Bay Bureau. I quickly grabbed my cell phone camera again and fumbled to unlock the screen. This was getting easier now that spring was making it possible to walk outside without four layers of gloves on; one layer covered it now that it was May.

  “Uh, yeah, it could get ugly.”

  I was disconcerted to have my boss on the street with me, as I did my job. I’d only ever met him through a Skype interview when he hired me.

  I wondered how long he’d been watching me try to cover this burgeoning conflict.

  Formal introductions though could wait. He was right. Things were heating up here on the streets of Widow’s Bay. I pointed my camera towards the congressmen and police chief.