Hexes and Holly: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery Holiday Anthology

by Tegan Maher

  "I don't know. He didn't have a medical history, as far as I know."

  "Was he taking any medication?"

  "I don’t think so, but then again, James and I weren’t close."

  "He was naked. Had he just finished exercising hard?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe? I just caught him with his mistress. Do you think it was a heart attack?" Then I remembered. “Oh, James had a peanut allergy. He did have an epinephrine injector, though. You know, for an anaphylactic reaction.”

  The paramedic kept talking, but I didn't really take in what she was saying. I agreed she could call the police, although I didn’t realise the police were called to heart attack victims. I nodded at intervals, and maybe they were the wrong intervals, because she took me by my arm again and suggested I call someone. Finally, I gave her Agatha’s phone number.

  I was still in a daze when Agatha arrived. She threw her arms around me in a dramatic fashion. "Oh, you poor thing. James is dead! Are you all right?"

  I stared at her. "No, of course I'm not all right. My husband has just dropped dead. How will I tell my children?"

  Agatha put her arm around me. "Come home with me," she said. “Grab some things. Maybe you should stay with me for a few days. After all, you don't want to come back to the house where James…" Her voice trailed away.

  I walked into the house with Agatha. I walked past my cat-shaped teapot. James had always hated that teapot. I walked into the bedroom. Sheets were flung everywhere, as were items of women's clothing.

  Agatha picked up a black lace bra. "This is too small and fancy for you, surely?"

  I sighed. "I'll explain it all later.” I grabbed an overnight bag and tossed in some clothes. They were shabby clothes, not fashionable in the slightest. James had never allowed me to spend money on clothes, but he was always able to spend plenty of money on his golf clubs and the newest golf fashion. Was it bad to resent somebody who had only just died? Maybe it was the shock.

  I picked up my little make-up bag and threw in my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Agatha looked as though she was about to suggest I fetch something else but wisely thought the better of it.

  Before long, I was sitting in her house by her Christmas tree, sipping a nice hot cup of sugary tea.

  "How awful for your husband to die at Christmas," Agatha said.

  I nodded, but I thought it was bad for somebody to die at any time of the year.

  "Feel free to cry if it would make you feel better."

  I took a deep breath and told her all about James’s affair with the woman from the supermarket, and then I told her about all his other affairs. As I went on, her jaw dropped lower and lower, and her face turned a horrible shade of purple. "Jennifer! Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

  I shrugged. "I was ashamed."

  Agatha made to protest, but I pushed on. "I have to tell my children about James."

  Agatha stood up and patted my shoulder. "I'll give you some privacy.” She stormed out of the room, muttering angrily to herself.

  I called each of my children in turn. Not one of them had an ounce of sympathy for me, and two of them even suggested it was my fault for not making sure James’s diet was better. I was past caring. I stood up and walked to the window. When I returned to my chair, one of Agatha's cats was sitting there. I picked her up and put her on my knee. She purred loudly. I wished I were a cat. Cats didn’t have a care in the world.

  Agatha hurried back into the room. "I wasn't listening, Jennifer. Well, I was, not to your words but to the sound of your voice. Have you told all the kids now?"

  "Yes. Wouldn't it be lovely to be a cat?"

  Agatha peered into my face. I expect she thought I was losing my mind. "A cat?"

  "Yes. Cats have the best lives. They get fed on demand and get plenty of affection. Cats can do whatever they like. Everybody loves cats. When I was a child, I wanted to be a cat."

  "Maybe you need some eggnog," Agatha said. "I know it's early in the day, but a bit of Christmas cheer wouldn't go astray. And a slice of Christmas cake with it."

  I clutched my stomach. "I don't feel too well. I don't think I could eat. But eggnog should be fine," I added as an afterthought. I sat there, staring at one of the silver baubles on the Christmas tree. I had been married to James for years. I had only today decided to divorce him, but now he was well and truly gone. What would my life be like now?

  There was a loud knock on the door, startling the cats. "I wasn't expecting anybody," Agatha said as she hurried out of the room.

  I heard a man's voice at the door. Presently, Agatha returned to the room with a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a tight suit and a grim expression. Her face was white and drawn.

  "Mrs Smothering?"

  "Yes?" I held Agatha’s cat closer to me.

  "My name is Detective Sergeant Wilfred Wigbert, and this is Detective Brock Bentley-Blather. We’d like to ask you some questions about the murder of your husband.”

  3

  “Murder?” I shrieked. “James was murdered? Are you sure? But how?”

  The ride to the police station in the back of the detectives’ car was a blur, as was their questioning. As I emerged hours later from the small, brick building, one thing was clear: I was the prime, maybe the only, suspect in their murder investigation. James’s affairs had somehow been turned against me.

  I switched on my phone and saw five missed calls from Agatha and as many texts. I didn’t want to rehash the police questioning, not right now, so I turned off the phone and asked the taxi to take me to A Likely Story.

  Edison Chester greeted me at the front door of the bookstore. “I was sorry to hear about your husband,” he said in a tone which suggested otherwise.

  “Thanks.” I made to push past him, but he laid his hand on my arm. Little silver sparkles leapt into the air—or had I imagined it? Was losing one’s mind a symptom of menopause, as James had suggested?

  “Women come into their power at this time,” Edison continued, nodding sagely as he spoke.

  What time was that? I looked at my watch. The heavy, unattractive watch irritated me, clamping around my wrist, holding it prisoner. It had been a gift from James, and he had always insisted I wear it daily. The item reminded me of a handcuff, of being chained to James. Now I ripped it off and stood there, turning it over in my hands. “Who needs an old watch when they have a smartphone?” I asked myself.

  Edison was watching me. “No, I mean women’s time.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows. “Women’s business.”

  “Oh,” I said, but I didn’t have a clue what he meant. “Do you have any books on, um, suddenly developing superpowers?” I was at once embarrassed, but to my surprise, Edison nodded and indicated I should follow him to a back room. I had not known this room existed. I turned to say so, but Edison had disappeared.

  I walked in. Golden light filtered through the high, barred windows, casting an eerie glow upon the room. Particles of dust danced in the beams, but the room didn’t feel musty. Instead, it felt bright, uplifting somehow.

  I crossed to the seat directly under the bay window. I looked out of the window to see tourists bustling about. I turned my attention to the room. On the seat was an open book, with the headings, ‘Spells, Tarot, Crystal Balls.’ Next to it was a gold-embossed book with the engraved title, Witches’ Tales. I shut the open book and gasped with delight. Perched on the cover was a raised silver spider, and from it stretched a delicate silver cobweb. I wasn’t one for spiders, given the fact in Australia there are two varieties of spiders that can kill you, and one of those varieties is common. Still, the silver work was as pretty as it was intricate.

  I turned around to peruse the shelves. The first book to catch my eye was Papyri Graecea Magicae, subtitled The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation. I spent a few minutes reading, but it said nothing about moving objects with one’s mind. The same could be said for the rest of the books on that shelf.

  Any other time, I would have loved looking through these
books. As it was, my husband had been murdered only hours earlier, and the police suspected me. I had to find out what was happening to me. Was it simply menopause, and I was losing my mind? I flung my hands to the ceiling. "What's going on?" I asked.

  I spun around at the sound of a thud. A book had fallen out on the floor, all by itself. "Did I do that?" I asked, but there was nobody around to reply.

  I picked up the book and crossed over to the seat by the bay window. The title in fancy, gold lettering was Book of Truths: A History. I made myself comfortable and opened the book. The contents shocked me. It said that a woman's power didn't appear until she started menopause. This applied both to women who possessed paranormal powers and those who did not. In the case of those with paranormal powers, it said a woman could go all her life without a single paranormal ability, but once she hit menopause, paranormal abilities would manifest.

  "That would be me!" I exclaimed.

  I turned the page, my hands shaking with excitement. I wasn't going mad, after all! But did paranormal powers actually exist? Or was this a fiction book disguised as a non-fiction book? I had no way of knowing, so I read on.

  The book said that throughout history, people were suspicious of women who had abilities to heal, whether those natural abilities were helped by the paranormal or not. It said our patriarchal society focused on youth, to keep women from knowing that they do step into their powers at a later age. In our society, women of my age were rendered invisible, with all the advertising targeted to the youthful. Yet the book said women over forty or fifty became truly powerful.

  I could scarcely believe what I was reading. I shut the book and placed it carefully back on the shelf and then set off to walk to Agatha's house. It was a long walk, and I was hot and bothered, both from the humidity and the hot flashes. What was I thinking? Agatha would have picked me up, but I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

  I decided to buy a bottle of cold water from the small café on the edge of town. As I stepped onto the road, a tall, thin man on a bicycle swerved to miss me. He yelled insults at me as he sped past. I turned around to shake my fist at him, but he went flying into the air and landed on a low tree branch. Onlookers hurried to help him as his bike skidded down the road.

  I selected a nice, cold bottle of water from the fridge and handed some change to the obviously bored girl behind the counter. “We prefer cards.”

  I noticed a sign on the counter: 2.5% surcharge for cards.

  I frowned. “I’ve only got cash.”

  She scowled at me and snapped, “All right, then.” She all but snatched the money from me.

  At once, her apron caught on fire. I unscrewed the lid and threw my bottle of water over her.

  The shop owner hurried out and thanked me for my fast action. She gave me five cold bottles of water and offered to drive me home.

  4

  Agatha must have been watching through her window, because she flung open the front door as soon as I walked inside her front gate. "Jennifer!" she shrieked. "I've been so worried about you. What happened?"

  "If you can give me something full of carbs, I'll tell you," I said.

  Soon I was back in the comfortable chair by the Christmas tree with a purring cat in my lap. "The police think I murdered James." Agatha gasped. I pushed on. "Yes, they think I murdered him because he was having affairs."

  "How many affairs did he have, exactly?" Agatha asked through narrowed eyes.

  I waved one hand at her. "I don't know. I knew he was having some, but I didn't know about Luella."

  "He never mentioned the names of his mistresses to you?"

  I chuckled. "Of course not! He always denied everything. Anyway, the police think I only just discovered what he was up to and murdered him."

  "Are they sure he was murdered?" Agatha asked.

  I nodded. "Yes, and that’s why they think I did it. He ate a cookie full of ground peanuts." Agatha opened her mouth, so I hurried to explain. “As you know, James won’t risk eating store-bought cookies, so I’ve been making them for him for years.”

  Agatha nodded slowly. "Yes, you keep them in that large glass jar at the end of your kitchen island."

  I nodded. "He ate one just before he died. In hindsight, it did seem as though he was having symptoms, but maybe he was focusing too much on me catching him with Luella and didn’t realize.”

  Agatha readily agreed. “Of course. He wouldn’t have suspected you’d bake him a peanut cookie.”

  “But I didn’t!” I screeched. “Of course I didn’t! We never had a single peanut in the house. Anyway, the detectives said they confiscated those cookies and my ingredients. Agatha, somebody put a peanut cookie in that jar deliberately!”

  Agatha looked thoughtful. “It had to be one of his mistresses. I’m sure the murderer wasn’t trying to frame you, Jennifer, just do away with James.”

  My hand went to my throat. "Frame me? What if I need a lawyer?" I asked in alarm. Agatha opened her mouth to speak, but I pushed on. "Remember how I thought I was going mad?"

  Agatha nodded. "Yes, James was quite worried about you."

  I pulled a face. "Well, after the police questioned me at length and I signed my statement, I went to the bookstore. I'd already researched online, of course, but I know that Edison has old rare books. I thought I might find something that hadn't found its way to the Internet."

  Agatha nodded her encouragement. "Oh yes. Women of old probably knew a lot about menopause. These days, it seems to be all about chemical and hormonal therapies. That was wise, Jennifer."

  I held up one hand, palm outwards. "No, no, no. I wasn't looking for books on menopause. I was looking for books on suddenly developing paranormal powers."

  Agatha gasped.

  "And I did find a history book that said women become powerful as soon as they reach menopause. I don't mean they necessarily have paranormal abilities or anything like that," I hastened to add, "but isn't it wonderful? I was starting to feel invisible with all this focus on youth, but now I realise I'm more powerful than I've ever been."

  Agatha shook her head. "I didn't want to say anything with your husband so recently deceased, but you really must face facts, Jennifer. I can't humour you any longer. It seems you could be developing a mental illness, just like your mother and your grandmother before you."

  I planted my palm onto my forehead. "Of course! People thought they had a mental illness, but they didn't! They came into their powers at menopause. The book says it runs in certain bloodlines."

  Agatha tut-tutted. "Really, Jennifer! I'm worried about you. There’s no such thing as paranormal powers."

  "That book fell off the shelf, and it was the very one I needed," I protested. "And I've told you about other things like that happening to me. The book was right!"

  "I think you need some pills," Agatha said sadly. “Or maybe it's just the shock of James.” She snatched a tissue from the small coffee table near the Christmas tree and dabbed furiously at her eyes. "Jennifer, please put this paranormal nonsense behind you. There are more pressing matters, like James's death. You'll have to arrange his funeral. I assume you will inherit everything, although perhaps you'll be sharing it with your children."

  "Oh yes, the funeral." I bit my lip. "Agatha, who could have possibly murdered James? I mean, he was a mechanic. It's not as though he was a high-powered businessman or a spy. I think you’re right. I think one of his mistresses murdered him."

  "Did you tell the detectives that?" Agatha asked me.

  "No. Um, yes, I think I did. It was all very stressful. Anyway, I'm sure they'd be looking into all his mistresses as well, especially Luella who left the house just before he died. I wish I knew who the murderer was.” A surge of energy shot through me.

  Just then, an urn containing the ashes of one of Agatha’s former husbands fell from the ornate cedar mantlepiece and smashed onto the floor.

  5

  I couldn’t remember what drinks the children liked, and I couldn’t remember if I w
as allowed to drink in front of them. For a little while, my youngest daughter, Katie, decided that it was undignified for a woman of my age to indulge in—well, to indulge. She’d smack liquor chocolates out of my hands. She’d pour my wine down the sink. She’d give my Pimm’s to the neighbours. All because one time I’d had a few too many red wines and went into a bar to have some fun on a mechanical bull.

  Sue me.

  I spent the morning carefully wrapping my cat ornaments in bubble wrap, and I spent the afternoon carefully burying the cats in the back yard to keep them safe, intending to retrieve them after the kids left. I knew my oldest son, Henry, and his evil wife, Beatrix, were just itching to get rid of my figurines. Henry had once been my favourite—I know you are not supposed to have favourites, but still—a sweet little boy with blonde curls and damp blue eyes. He’d gone from inserting himself under my arm at night to rolling his eyes whenever I walked into the room.

  Then there was Carol-Angel. A terrible name, Carol-Angel. She was born on Christmas Day, and I had wanted to call her Noelle or Clara. James did not like either of those names. He found them “flighty,” whatever that meant. At first, I refused to name her Carol-Angel. I was steadfast. Stoic. Determined. But his family arrived in town and agreed with James, and when I was asleep, his mother filled out the forms and James signed them and everything was done before I had the chance to stop them. It was unbelievable, how little agency people gave to mothers. It’s not like Carol-Angel was the daughter I carried and delivered. No, why should I get a say in her name?

  Henry, Carol-Angel, and Katie. I’d gone mad raising them alone—James spent all his time at work, and he didn’t think the children should spend any time at childcare, given that they might pick up germs or bad manners. That was easy for him to say, seeing as he wasn’t the one at home reading Spot the Dog over and over for hours on end, day after day.

  Katie, Henry, evil Beatrix, and Carol-Angel. If those were the only guests arriving at my cottage that afternoon, then maybe I wouldn’t have needed to bury my precious cat ornaments in the backyard. Then maybe I could have tucked them away in the cupboard and hoped for the best. Alas, James had wanted a big family. He saw it as a status symbol. Like, hello world, I can afford to pay for eight mouths to feed. Except James couldn’t pay for eight mouths to feed, and it was often me who missed out.