Casting Spells by Barbara Bretton Page A

here.”
    “Isadora?” I groaned. “Where is she?”
    “She’s flirting with Manny and Frank and the other old guys from the Home. I know she’s older than dirt but really . . .”
    Nobody knew exactly how old Isadora was; the guesses ranged anywhere from over one hundred human years to I-can’t-count-that-high. She was hot-tempered, clearly partial to Dane, sexually voracious, and so beautiful that none of the rest seemed to matter. Her faerie charms were turbocharged, and when she aimed them in your direction, it was like being Tasered.
    Not that I knew firsthand. Isadora usually gave me a wide berth. She had made it clear on more than one occasion that she would rather see her sons gelded than hooked up with the likes of me. And I’ll be honest, the thought of Isadora as a mother-in-law made my Still Life with Cats look pretty darn good.
    The old Abbey Church had been deconsecrated in 1842 when the Episcopalians decided to head west to become pioneers. Except for two stained glass windows featuring Saint George battling various dragons and the fact that the ceiling vaulted heavenward, you would never know our Town Hall had been a spiritual gathering place. Okay, maybe the organ in the loft and the church bells didn’t exactly scream local government but waste not, want not. After all, this was New England.
    Lynette was right. It did feel like a reunion of sorts. The entire Pendragon crew. The Weavers from the Inn. The Harris boys and the Souderbush family were fading in and out near the coffee urn. Even the elusive Simone, who had broken up three marriages last year without even materializing, had taken on more corporeal form for the occasion. She was the wisteria-scented cloud of azure blue drifting lazily overhead.
    Isadora was holding court beneath the American flag near one of the Saint George windows. Just as Lynette had said, she had woven a spell around poor Manny and Frank and the other vampires of a certain age. Isadora was smiling at them like they were Brad’s and George’s better-looking older brothers, but trust me, there is nothing sadder than a vampire with a removable upper plate and a subscription to Modern Maturity.
    Isadora shot me a look when I took my place behind the desk and adjusted the microphone, and I flashed an insincere smile in return. It wasn’t that Isadora made me nervous exactly, but there was something about her presence that made me understand how a butterfly felt just before a collector pinned her wings.
    Lilith waved to me from across the room. She was our township librarian/historian/secretary, a good-natured troll of Norwegian heritage with hair so red that fire alarms tripped spontaneously when she entered a room. Her husband, Archie, also a troll, ran the electronic repair ship at the foot of Toothaker Bridge.
    I gave Lilith the signal and she joined me at the desk then led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance. The Pledge was followed by a spirited rendition of the Sugar Maple anthem.
    There was no denying the fact that we were a patriotic bunch. I waited while various villagers dabbed at their red-rimmed eyes with wadded-up Kleenex and then I rapped the gavel down on the maple desktop. “The fourteenth emergency meeting of Sugar Maple Township is called to order.”
    And that was when all hell broke loose.
    “It’s unconstitutional!” Paul Griggs’s wife, Verna, was the first to weigh in. “What gives the county the right to force a police station down our throats?”
    “Our charter,” I said, pointing toward the framed document on the stand near the flag. “Once we incorporated, we gave certain rights to the county. This is one of them.”
    That statement didn’t win me any friends.
    “Too many rules and regulations if you ask me,” JoJo, a poltergeist of dubious reputation, said. JoJo had an unfortunate habit of spitting small stones when he talked, which explained why Mamie Ferguson was holding her purse over her head. “Since when do we just lie down