Page 88 of Hungry As Her Python

Out came a binder the size of a grimoire, filled with grainy, black-and-white security footage printouts.

Then a laptop.

Then, I kid you not, taped testimonies from other cranky old-timers in town.

What was this woman’s purse made of? Narnia leather? Remnants from an English Nanny’s old carpetbag?

“Don’t be rude,” she snapped, catching me peering into the bag.

My cheeks went hot like I’d been caught stealing cookies from my own bakery.

A few minutes later, Donny bustled in with Mrs. Fox in tow (mid-hair foils), followed by Evie looking about as green as pistachio gelato and clutching a bucket.

“Oh my Goddess, Evie, sit down! You look like hell,” I shot up, trying to push a chair under her before she fell.

“I can’t keep anything down,” she mumbled miserably.

Mrs. Gennaro sniffed like Evie’s vomiting was somehow a personal insult.

“Guess you really are sick.”

“Um,” I tried again, “Mrs. Gennaro, these are my cousins?—”

“They know me,” she cut in. “I’m Vice President of the Charmed Embers Women and Witches Social Club.”

Donny and Evie exchanged blank looks, then nodded like bobbleheads.

Mrs. Fox, however, didn’t get the memo.

“Who?”

“Shh!” Donny hissed.

“Mrs. G seems to think we’ve been, um, lax in our duties.”

Snickers all around.

Because we were mature professionals.

Totally not laughing at the insinuation of laxatives and doodies.

Mrs. G rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get on with it.”

She hit play on her laptop, and we all crowded in.

The footage was garbage quality, but even through the static, I saw them.

Little, furry, not-of-this-world critters darting around in the dead of night—chewing plants, knocking over bins, and, oh look, setting trash alight like it was the Vampire’s Midsummer’s Eve Rave & Rotisserie Weekend.

“No way,” Donny whispered.

“They can’t do that,” Evie gasped before bolting for the bathroom again.

Mrs. Fox narrowed her eyes.

“Those furry little cretins! I knew it wasn’t my Johnny eating my marigolds.”