by Tegan Maher
“I don’t want to say until I’m sure,” I replied. “But trust me, it’ll be a quick test to see.”
When Scarlett had said all that stuff about overthinking, suddenly things clicked. It had actually been so simple, and I think everyone had overthought it. We reached the small building that acted as Enforcer headquarters, where we found Chief Enforcer Tyson speaking with one of the other Enforcers. As soon as she saw us she came over.
“What is it? Do you remember something that could help with the theft?”
“I think I know who did it, and I think I know where the ruby is,” I replied. “Can you get us into the studio where the theft took place? I want to test my theory.”
“Of course,” Chief Enforcer Tyson replied immediately. “Let’s go.”
Five minutes later the three of us were at the crime scene, with Chief Enforcer Tyson nodding at the shifters guarding the entire makeshift studio. I led the others to the small tent where the auditions had been happening, and then turned to Scarlett. “We need a spell. Something to make anything that’s been turned invisible appear again.”
Scarlett nodded. “Venus, goddess so beautiful, reveal to me, anything here that’s invisible.”
“Ok. Cast that spell, but like, everywhere in this room. Under the chairs, under the table, everywhere.”
Scarlett nodded and Chief Enforcer Tyson watched as the two of us cast the spell over and over. Finally, I let out a yelp as I repeated the line, pointed my wand at a corner full of dust, and the jewel appeared. Sitting there on the dirty floor was a sparkling jewel that shone so incredibly brightly in the light. I ran over, picked it up, and held it up to the light.
“Wow, that’s beautiful,” Scarlett said.
“That’s the ruby,” Chief Enforcer Tyson confirmed, completely in professional mode. “Amazing. Please, let me take custody of it.”
I handed it over to her and the three of us admired the beauty of the jewel in her hand for a second before the Chief Enforcer carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it into her pocket.
“How did you know? And who did it?” she asked, turning toward me.
“I realized when Scarlett said the crime could have been so simple that we were all overthinking it. The ruby had never left the room. When you were brought back here, I was sitting on the same chair as I’d been on when the lights went out and the ruby was stolen. But when you were brought back a gust of wind hit my face. There was no gust of wind when the jewel was stolen. I’m sure of that. But I didn’t make the connection until this morning. If there was no gust of wind, that meant no one had come into the tent, and it had to be someone in the tent who had taken the jewel. But Chief Enforcer Tyson searched us all before she left, and it was a large enough jewel that even being invisible it would have been difficult to hide on a paranormal’s body. So that left one possibility: the stone was still here in the tent.”
Scarlett nodded. “The thief had to be waiting for things to cool down to come and get it. But to turn it invisible, that means it had to have been one of the witches and wizards who did it.”
“Exactly,” I said. “But Sandra freaked out because of her vertigo and grabbed her brother, which leaves…”
“Lindsay Villa,” Chief Enforcer Tyson said quietly, and I nodded.
“That’s right. While walking with Pawdrey she could have subtly kicked out the power cord for the lights that ran along the ground. As soon as the lights went out, Lindsay ripped the ruby from her neck, cast the invisibility spell, and tossed the ruby away. It’s also why, despite the fact that Pawdrey tried to attack the thief, she didn’t manage to actually get anyone. There was no thief; it had been Lindsay the whole time.”
“Wow,” Scarlett said. “I never would have guessed it was her. I mean, I knew she’d had a few scandals, and it had been a while since she had done a big movie, but to steal the necklace? This was supposed to be her big break back into the movie business.”
“I guess she didn’t think she could do it,” I replied. “She must have figured that a single big payout from cutting up the ruby and selling it would pay a lot better than doing movies.”
“I mean, she’s not wrong. She was paid a lot for this movie, but the ruby is worth so much more than what any paranormal has ever earned,” Scarlett said. “Still, it’s crazy that she went to these lengths.”
“I’ll see about having her admit to the crime,” Chief Enforcer Tyson said. “Thank you for the information. The town of Fairy Falls thanks you.”
I nodded. “Of course. I’m just glad the ruby has been found and the production has gone ahead.”
“Look at that,” Scarlett said with a grin. “You might not have had a traditional Christmas before, but you sure saved it for everyone this year!”
Want to read more?
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this short story, please check out Love at First Spell, the first book in the Fairy Falls Mysteries series by Samantha Silver. Click here to read it now on Amazon.
About Samantha
Samantha Silver lives in British Columbia, Canada, along with her husband and a little old doggie named Terra.
When she's not writing mysteries Samantha loves traveling (she's most recently been to Egypt and Jordan), skiing, eating Dairy Queen and complaining about how hard running is.
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Mistletoe Murder
Stella Berry
Mistletoe Murder
By Stella Berry
Morgana Emrys has some limited magic, in particular an ability to sometimes see the auras and sense the emotions of those around her. This talent has, on occasion, been useful in helping to solve murders. But when a murder occurs at the village Christmas Fayre, Morgana’s instincts seem to be pointing her to the most unlikely of suspects.
1
Mistletoe Murder
The mistletoe landed right on her head. Berries dropped like beads from a broken necklace, showering her hair and bouncing off her shoulders. Morgana grit her teeth and clutched at the hard-won sprig, wobbling precariously on her wooden ladder as it slid slightly against the tree.
“Why these bunches have to grow so high is a mystery to me,” she grumbled, shifting her weight to drop the new cutting into a large wicker basket on the ground below.
The ladder tipped sideways as she did so, and Morgana yelped as it began to fall. She made a grab for a branch of the tree, caught it, and swung there, suspended by her arms.
“This is so unglamorous,” she said, resigned to the fact that she must look a complete idiot. Her legs kicked to try to hook the trunk, and within moments she was inching her way down. “Tree climbing wasn’t really on my mind when I picked out this dress.” She sighed with relief as her feet touched down on the grass, and shook a load of moss out of her sleeve.
She added the fallen sprig to the basket, already filled with green mistletoe leaves and plump white berries, and decided enough was enough. It would do: there was plenty there for most people in the village to have a bit over their door, and she just hoped it would result in plenty of kissing. Goodness knew, half the people in Portmage could do with a good kiss to cheer them up.
Mind you, she mused, the Christmas spirit seemed particularly contagious this year. Normally, the pretty seaside village she lived in was half empty during the winter months. It was a tourist hot spot and tourists didn’t visit the County of Cornwall once the cold set in. But this year seemed different somehow. Maybe it was the economy or something, but there seemed to be fewer second-home-owners and more people making the place their permanent residence, summer and winter alike.
They were expecting large numbers at the village Christmas Fayre later that day, and Morgana was looking forward to running her usual little stall. Of course, she would be embracing Yule rather than Christmas, and her offerings tended more towards the alter
native than the traditional for most of these. Hence the cutting of fresh mistletoe. Not many of the villagers would realize it was a tradition dating back to the ancient Druids, who believed it had mystical powers, and that hanging it over your door would bring good luck to the household and ward off evil spirits.
“Leave it,” Morgana sternly addressed her cat, as Lancelot batted a berry and chased after it when it rolled. “Those are not for eating. Come on, I’ll make us lunch before I get ready, I need to be nice and early to set up.”
Lancelot gave her a reproachful look but dutifully trotted at her side as she left the ladder where it was, lifted the basket, and made her way back down the garden to the house.
She entered through the back door leading straight into a stockroom and set the basket down beside another filled with cobnuts. The entire downstairs of her home was given over to her business. Beyond the small stock room was the shop she owned, a veritable trove of interesting treasures, called Merlin’s Attic.
She wasn’t opening the shop, however, as the Christmas Fayre would take up her entire afternoon. Almost everyone in the village would be there rather than out on the High Street. Instead, she went up the stairs to the flat where she lived above the business and headed straight to the sink to wash her hands.
“I don’t want to make food with all that sap on me,” she informed the cat. “Those apple trees are great producers but sticky, and in more ways than one.” She reached into her hair and extracted a few twigs. “Hmm, not a great look, especially as most of the villagers think I’m as mad as a March hare already.”
Morgana smiled down at her unconventional outfit. The batwing black lace dress, the Celtic silver rings on her fingers, and the large amethyst that hung around her neck. Not to mention the pointy half boots that she adored, but quite clearly shouted witchy.
Two hours later, as she swept into the village hall, she was even more aware of it. Her fellow stallholders laughed and smiled as they set up their tables, and there was an abundance of fluffy multicoloured sweaters, and the entire place was festooned in vibrant paper chains also in red and green. Santa hats seemed also seemed to be the order of the day, and Morgana was the only one whose hat was black and pointed.
“Mog, over here.” Elaine Westbrook waved madly, and Morgana’s smile lit up. Ellie ran the bakery at the other end of the high street and was presiding over a table laden with Christmas Cake and festive iced buns. She was also Morgana’s older sister.
“Hi, Ellie. Is this me?” Morgana dumped the heavy box she was carrying onto the empty table beside Ellie’s and checked the label taped to the front. It read Merlin’s Attic, and she nodded with pleased anticipation. “Good spot, fairly close to the door so that people haven’t spent all their money before they reach me.”
She looked to the table on her left and found it still empty but for a large white cloth, and sitting behind was an elderly woman in a wheelchair who seemed to be fast asleep.
Morgana nudged Ellie and inclined her head to the old lady. “Does she know it starts in forty minutes?”
Ellie rolled her eyes at Morgana. “She’s here with Mrs Goodbody. She’s Mrs Goodbody’s aunt, Miss Beasley.”
“Gosh, I never imagined someone as old as Mrs Goodbody having an aunt.” Morgana grinned.
Ellie stood hard on Morgana’s foot as Mrs Goodbody herself strode toward them.
“Thank you, Miss Emrys, I’m not that old.” She said in a voice like a school matron, “I’m only sixty-nine years young and my hearing is also well intact.”
Morgana bit back her smile and tried to look apologetic. Then waited, with almost delighted anticipation, as Mrs Goodbody gave her outfit the expected once-over.
“Couldn’t you have made the least bit of effort to embrace the occasion, dear? It’s not Halloween every day.” Mrs Goodbody sighed and shook her head at Morgana. “I’ve told you before, a woman of warmth is worth her salt.”
Behind her, Morgana heard Ellie giggle at this latest homily, but she kept a straight face as she replied, “I don’t think I’ve actually heard that one, Mrs G. But salt is indeed a valuable commodity, and excellent for warding off evil, so I shall bear it in mind.”
Mrs Goodbody thinned her lips disapprovingly and tutted as she checked on her sleeping aunt and then moved away again.
“Why do you persist in provoking the village matriarchs, Mog? Don’t make yourself the object of their wrath, it isn’t worth it.”
“Oh, please. They might not like the way I dress, but they can’t get enough of my herbal face-cream. They aren’t going to target me.” Morgana was complacent as she reached into her box and shook out a large purple velvet throw which she then draped artistically over her table.
She actually rather liked Mrs Goodbody, and her two best friends, Mrs Braintree and Mrs Ellington-Jones. They were kind of ruthless if they disapproved, but also straight-up kind to those in need. Morgana appreciated good people. They weren’t as easy to find as one might think.
Half an hour later, she’d carried in the rest of her stock for the Fayre from her car. Typically, just as she was staggering under the weight of carrying too much in one go, the basket of mistletoe tumbled from the top of her stacked pile and cascaded down to the floor.
“This stuff has been nothing but a curse,” she grumbled, setting down her wares to pick up the branches from the floor.
At the next table, Mrs Goodbody clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Those are poisonous, Morgana.”
“They’re not that bad, I think only pets tend to get sick from accidentally eating the berries,” Morgana said, biting her lip.
“This is the European variety, Viscum album, considerably more poisonous than American varieties,” Mrs Goodbody lectured, while fetching out a dustpan and brush from a large container behind her. She continued to gently scold Morgana as she swept up all the stray berries and emptied them into the wastebasket she had hidden in the folds of her own table. “Why you must sell all these pagan decorations is beyond me.” Mrs Goodbody frowned as a Morgana accidentally brushed against her with a moss-covered log that was carved in an image of the Green Man.
Morgana smiled and shrugged. She was pleased with her offerings and continued laying out her table to look appealing for the potential customers. There was mistletoe and holly, of course, and the basket of cobnuts, but also other things used to celebrate Yule such as the Goddess candles, and the bells to drive away demons and the carved Yule logs.
On her left, Ellie’s Christmas puddings were sending out enticing smells, and on her right, Mrs Goodbody had plopped down a huge urn of steaming Christmas punch, which wafted hints of orange, nutmeg, cinnamon, and clove. Morgana resisted the urge to comment that the urn looked more like a witches cauldron than anything, and instead inhaled deeply, feeling a sort of contentment waft over her at the seasonal scent. She might not celebrate Christmas exactly, but she did love this time of year.
“Would you like a taste?” Mrs Goodbody gave a smug smile as she saw Morgana lean in toward her table.
Morgana nodded enthusiastically, and Mrs Goodbody took a paper cup from a stack and ladled some punch into it.
It was almost boiling, but Morgana sipped it with rapt enjoyment, drawing an approving smile from the older woman.
“It was auntie’s recipe.” Mrs Goodbody looked sadly at her aunt who was awake now and staring vacantly into the distance. “Not that she remembers it anymore,” she lowered her voice and confided, “dementia.”
Morgana gave her a sympathetic grimace. “That’s tough to handle, for both of you.”
Mrs Goodbody inclined her head in agreement. “She has brief moments of clarity, but for the most part she doesn’t remember anything, even who I am.” She took a deep breath and a bracing look came over her face. “Still, she does enjoy occasional outings to the beach. She’s in a retirement home now, but I try to take her out to see the sea every week, it seems to make her happy. She had a sea view in her old house, but there isn’t one at the retirem
ent home. It’s in Wadebridge, you see.”
“I imagine it does make her happy. She lived in the village her whole life, didn’t she?” Morgana inquired, having a sudden vague memory of the old lady from when she was a girl.
“Like me.” A shadow crossed Mrs Goodbody’s face and Morgana wondered if she was picturing herself ending up in a retirement home, miles away from Portmage, cut off from her friends, and the view, and the village life that she took such pleasure in. Mrs Goodbody shook herself, dispelling the shadow with a bright smile. “It should be a good turn out today. Cold but sunny. Perfect for a bit of shopping.”
“And for a cup of hot punch,” Morgana agreed with a smile, “it’s hit the spot, and just in time too. I think the doors are opening.”
They both turned their heads to the main doors into the village hall, which had just released a blast of cold air into the room. A queue of people stood outside and it was less than a minute before the first patrons flooded in, looking wildly around as though afraid they might miss out on securing something on sale. With them came a flood of eager emotion that washed over Morgana almost making her stagger back.
Morgana bit her lip, realizing that she’d been chatting too much to remember to shut down her abilities. Crowds were bad for a psychic witch!
It wasn’t really that she was psychic, exactly. She couldn’t hear thoughts or anything like that. What Morgana picked up on was emotions. An extremely useful talent when she was assisting the police with a murder investigation, but those same talents had nearly crippled her as a teenager when her father died. She’d been able to feel all the pain, loss, and grief around her, compounding her own beyond endurance. She’d shut her magic down at that point and was only now, at 28 years old, starting to embrace it again and trying to use it for good.