CHAPTER 1
It was an otherwise pleasant day in the small Australian town of Witch Woods, situated inland in the mountains. The sun was shining on a pleasant scene, a landscape of beautiful rose gardens and fruit trees. Two pet sheep were grazing happily on their lush pasture beyond, and kookaburras were singing in the gum trees. The pleasant scent of star jasmine wafted along on the gentle breeze.
There was one blight on this happy vista.
My mother was bending over her mandarin tree with a pruning saw. “I warned you!” she addressed the sapling in a stern tone. “I said if you have bugs next year, out you come! And you have them!”
“Mum.” I cleared my throat.
“Laurel.” She seemed surprised to see me, but quickly recovered, and bent over once more to saw viciously at the tree. “I thought you’d be here five minutes ago. I wanted you to meet my first guests,” she said with her back turned.
I was somewhat concerned, to say the least. Since I had moved out of Mum’s house after finally renovating the apartment above the funeral home, Mum had decided to rent out my old room, as well as the spare rooms, to paying guests. While it might sound like a good idea in theory, I didn’t know how many guests she would keep once they had met her.
“Mum, if you don’t mind me saying so, don’t try to force them all to go to your church.”
She swung around, brandishing the pruning saw at me. “How could you say such a thing, Laurel! I would never force anyone to go to my church. What a terrible thing to say! Anyway, I’ll have you know that they’re all theologians.”
I wondered why a group of theologians would go on vacation together, but I thought it better not to ask her. “That will make for lovely dinner conversation,” I said dryly.
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! And here they are now, right on time. Theologians are always timely.”
I shook my head. There was simply no response to that.
Three cars arrived, one after the other. The people who got out of the cars didn’t look like theologians, not that I had ever seen a theologian. I supposed I expected someone who looked like an old oil painting of John Wesley or John Knox. To the contrary, they seemed to be about my mother’s age but were all nicely dressed and were not wearing sombre expressions.
“I’m Thelma Bay, and this is my daughter, Laurel, who owns the funeral home just over there,” she said as she pointed to the nearby building. “She does a wonderful funeral, if you know anyone who has passed away.” She gave me an encouraging nod, while I stood rooted to the spot, embarrassed.
The theologians introduced themselves, each in turn.
“I must ask Pastor Green to dinner,” Mum said happily. “I told him you were coming, and he was beside himself with excitement. He has lots of questions for you.”
They all exchanged glances. The man standing closest to me spoke. “That’s good to hear. Sadly, many ministers don’t like what we write about.”
My mother shook her head. “What a terrible thing. We are all members of the one body: some feet, some heads, some legs, some hands. Yet we all make up the same body. We should not be at odds with one another.”
The guests looked confused. “Well, I’m glad to hear your pastor has an open mind,” the man who had introduced himself as James said, while his wife nodded.
“Yes, Pastor Green is very open-minded,” Mum said. “He even speaks to anti-Calvinists.” She shook her head in disgust. “I told him that your specialty was the Holy Ghost. He’s looking forward to a good discussion of the Trinity.”
The guests appeared even more confused. “The Holy Ghost?” James and his wife, Jenny, said in unison.
“Yes,” Mum said. “Aren’t you writing about the Holy Spirit? You said you were seeking the Spirit.”
James frowned. “Spirits, ghosts,” he said, gesturing to the others. “We’re a writers’ group. Every year we come to Witch Woods for a holiday to do some writing. This year we chose to write ghost stories.”
Mum’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re not theologians?”
