by Willow Mason
I held up a finger for option one, then option two, and received an enthusiastic bark to tell me Beezley choose the former.
“Is it okay if we stay with him outside until the funeral’s starting?” I asked, noticing that other clumps of attendees were forming. Steady puffs of smoke from the centre of the social circles told me why.
“Sure. Just don’t leave it too late. We’ll be closing the doors at five minutes past and won’t reopen.”
I moved over to stand just beside the nearest group, Wilson performing a display of social awkwardness next to me.
“Just pretend we’re talking,” I told him, wishing I’d kept up the practice of smoking my mother had forced me to abandon two days after I started, back in my teen years. Bumming a smoke was such an easy way to make instant friends. “But keep your voice low so I can eavesdrop.”
“Sure. What should I pretend to be saying?”
“Recite some facts you enjoy or tell me scene by scene description of your favourite TV show, it doesn’t matter.”
Wilson ignored the last words, spending the next few minutes staring at the gravel path, his face twisted and miserable.
“What news did you read in the paper this morning?” I prompted. Even for a funeral, nobody should appear so tortured. “Tell me about an article.”
“There was a notice about the new fleet of planes the air force is ordering.”
“Perfect. Tell me everything you remember.”
Wilson launched into a stultifying list of facts and features of the latest and greatest in modern aircraft while I sidled closer to the group.
“She was such an angel when Bethany was little,” a woman said. “Heaven has a new set of wings to grant today.”
My nose wrinkled. I remembered the same saccharine treats being doled out at my mother’s funeral. It was the only gift someone who barely knew the deceased could offer those lost in genuine grief. Next.
I tapped Wilson’s hand, and we moved along.
“Can you believe it? So tragic. I just saw her last month…”
“She was always a treasure back when they attended our church…”
“Fenella was my star student in first grade…”
“Do you remember when she used to come over on the weekends?”
I stopped and held onto Wilson’s wrist to indicate this group was worth staying nearby. An elderly gent had asked the question. I snatched a glance at him, doing a double take at the long moustache with rolled ends. With that facial hair, he should be tying damsels to train tracks.
He fiddled with the top of an old cane, the engraved silver polished to a shine for the occasion. “She had the great trick where she’d know what you were about to say and could speak alongside you.”
“I’ll admit,” another man said, “that used to freak me out. What about the animals she used to have tracking after her? I swear, if you left Fenella alone in a park for ten minutes, she’d adopt three wild creatures as pets.”
“We thought she’d grow up to be a vet,” a woman said, her voice choking with tears. “Now, she’ll never get the chance.”
The reverie dipped from memories into present sadness and I drifted away from the group. Wilson followed me, still reciting a hundred uninteresting facts from memory.
A young woman twisted her hands together. “Barnaby is distraught.”
“Is he Fenny’s cat?”
“Yeah. The poor thing won’t eat or sleep. He just keeps trying to get out of the house, as though he wants to find her. We’ve had to lock him in the laundry just to leave home today.”
I guessed it must be Fenella’s sister talking. She was calmer than the couple who stood beside her, the woman broken and staring into the middle distance, the man weeping a steady stream of tears. I recognised them from the television show, but the intervening days had worn them down even further.
The intrusion into the family’s grief caught me off-guard, sending shame spiralling through me. You’re doing it to find her killer. Just keep that top of your mind.
“If he doesn’t recover soon, we’ll have to put him down. It’s awful, but you should see the weird mess he made of Fen’s things. He piled them all together in a pyramid, then tried to set fire to it.”
My head snapped around, and I had to force myself to relax to cover the gaffe.
A funeral pyre. I’d watched my mother’s familiar go through the same process when she died. It was a partner’s way of remembering them through their favourite possessions, then dispatching them to the other side to keep their loved one company during their new journey.
I kept my shaking hands clasped as my mind raced through the repercussions.
Fenella had been a witch.
Chapter Fourteen
“What’s the rush?” Wilson complained as I took him by the elbow and steered him out of there. Beezley didn’t like my new destination, either. He resisted as I pulled at his lead, placing all his weight in the opposite direction.
“Come on. I’ll explain in the car,” I whispered to him, in no mood to put up with this behaviour. “We have to get to the Wainwright’s house before they return from the funeral.”
Wilson got behind the wheel, still reluctant. “I don’t think we should break into their home. Can you imagine how it would look if we’re caught? Burglarising someone’s house while they’re attending their daughter’s funeral? We wouldn’t survive to trial.”
“Then we’d better make sure we’re not caught.” I sat in the back seat, pulling Beezley into my lap and stroking him for comfort. In the half day since I’d last been able to hear him speak, I’d begun to treat him more like the dog he appeared to be rather than the police detective he was.
“I don’t understand why we’re doing this at all,” Wilson grumbled.
“Because I think Fenella was a witch and if so, her murder might be the start of something even more sinister.”
“More sinister than a serial killer?” Wilson gave a short laugh, and I shook my head as I realised how farfetched it all seemed.
Until I remembered the dog sitting in my lap had once been full of doubts about the trail he was following, too.
“It’s not often that witches are born outside of an established family, but it happens. Recessive genes apply to the witch population just as they do to eye colour or blood type.” I stared out the window with a frown, trying to piece together the information in its simplest form. “The coven would’ve picked up on her powers eventually and brought her into the fold, but until she’s spotted, neither they nor Fenella would’ve known what was happening.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes. Just because you’re a witch doesn’t mean another witch’s death is more important than if she were human.”
I let out a huff of breath. “I’m not saying that. But Fenella might’ve been killed to gain control of her powers. To a white witch, it doesn’t make a difference one way or the other if another person has powers—except if they’re not pulling their weight with the neural network. To a black witch…”
My words trailed off as the horror of them hit my mind full force. If a bad witch was on the loose in Riverhead, then nobody was safe. They didn’t obey the natural laws or use their powers to enhance the coven.
A bad witch could unleash hell on earth just to advance their own cause. To watch the numbers in their bank account grow or cause harm to an enemy. No wonder the police were after the occult spells in the library. With a white witch’s corrupted power to fuel them, they could unleash untold destruction on the world.
Nobody used those spells to heal a child or reunite a puppy with its owner.
“If Fenella was an unrecognised witch, it’s possible the others on the list were too. We should go back through the police files and try to uncover as much information on them as possible. Friends and family will be a good source for hidden clues.”
“Sure. I’ll just walk up to a grieving relative and ask them to tell me all the weird things they remember about their
dead loved one.”
“Good.” I ignored Wilson’s sarcasm for the moment. It would just waste time and I understood where it came from. I’d spent half my life being afraid and developed my own armour coating of wit.
The Wainwright house came into view, at the end of a long cul-de-sac. It meant we’d be noticed for sure, but the timid residents could curtain twitch all they liked so long as they didn’t interfere.
“You can stay out here as a getaway driver,” I said, clapping Wilson on the shoulder. “Beezley and I’ll grab the cat and be back in a minute.”
His French bulldog ears perked up at the news, and I gave Beezley an extra pat for luck as I set him down.
“What if the cat’s gone walkabout?” Wilson asked. “How long am I meant to stay here like a sitting duck while you poke about inside?”
“The family said they’d locked Barnaby in the laundry, so I doubt that’ll be the case.” I took two steps towards the house, then backtracked. “If you feel you need to leave, don’t worry about us. We’ve already dragged you into a police cell for a few nights. You don’t owe us anything.”
“Hey, I dragged myself into that arrest. Give me some credit.” Wilson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “If I see anybody suspicious out here, I’ll give a toot before I get out of here.”
“Cool.” I slapped the side of the car door and headed down the side of the house. Although some people in Riverhead didn’t bother with home security, I doubted a family with a dead daughter would be so lax.
The locked gate between me and the back yard was only a metre in height. Even with a decided lack of physical prowess I soon vaulted it and reached back to lift Beezley over.
The back door was locked too, more of a surprise, and there was no key under the mat or a nearby pot plant—shocker. Without magic, I had no other way of getting inside except brute force. Although I didn’t object to stealing a cat from an empty residence, breaking the door down to do it set my nerves jangling.
“Can you fit through the cat door?” I asked Beezley, seeing an answer to all our problems.
He stuck his nose inside, then withdrew, staring at me through big, sad eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but if you can somehow get the door unlocked, that would be good. Or chase the cat outside, that’d do.”
Beezley struggled through the flap, which was built for the sleek lines of a feline not the rotund figure of a bulldog. When he seemed to get stuck, I gave his rear end a helping hand. He gave a low growl but popped out easily enough. Through the pebbled glass, I watched him trotting along the corridor, out of sight.
I stepped back, staring around the back yard, hoping no one was staring back. With the netted curtains on every window, I wouldn’t be able to tell. Someone could be taking a video of my every move.
A bark came from a nearby window and I hurried over, grateful for the opportunity to do something other than stand and wait. Beezley was pulling at the sash window, knocking it up from the base.
I joined in and soon had enough of a gap to squeeze through. Like Beezley before me, I got stuck. A quick wriggle and the window slid up a little more, letting me through.
Arriving in a heap on the floor mightn’t be a dignified entrance, but I didn’t care. A magical familiar cat took up my attention, with a small pinch left over, listening for the beep of a horn.
“If I was a laundry, where would I be?” I called out in a singsong voice, making Beezley whine and paw at his ears. “Yeah, alright. I get it. It’s amazing how, even when I can’t understand a single thing you say, you still manage to be rude.”
The small wag of his hips indicated he was pleased.
When I opened the third door, a cat sprang out, claws swiping at my calves before the blur ran straight past me and away. Uttering an expletive under my breath, I gave chase, coming to an abrupt halt when I saw the cat sitting and staring at a photograph in the lounge.
“I know you miss Fenella,” I said, shuffling as close as I dared. “But we need your help. We think someone murdered her.”
The cat turned, its Siamese eyes measuring me and finding me wanting. Why this gorgeous, streamlined creature had been saddled with the name Barnaby, I couldn’t fathom.
“Would you mind coming for a ride with us?” I asked, taking the lack of running away as a positive sign. “I hope a witch I know can translate your answers to a few questions. Any assistance you can give will help us know if your mistress was murdered.”
At the last word, Barnaby turned, arching his back, his fur standing on end. His tail turned into a spike, darting out to poke and prod the air, warning me away.
“Please. I don’t know what else to do. They’ve taken away my powers and I’m running out of options.”
Barnaby hissed, aimed in Beezley’s direction.
“He’s a detective sergeant with the Riverhead police,” I explained, hoping I wasn’t trying to explain myself to a common house cat. “Beezley might look like a dog but he’s definitely a pig.”
I took the resulting bark to mean Beezley wasn’t fond of the common nickname. On the bright side, Barnaby’s back relaxed, his spine once again forming a straight line instead of bending like a bow.
“I promise it won’t take long,” I said, sidling towards the doorway. The room I’d come in through was the next one along the corridor from the lounge. “And you’ll get to meet members of the Riverhead coven, along with their familiars. I guess Fenella never got the chance to make their acquaintance but I’m sure they’d be pleased to help you with questions or…” I waved my hand, unable to think what else a cat would need help with.
Barnaby tilted his head to one side, his green eyes seeming to elongate as he stared at me. Finally, he rose, stretched out for a second, then trotted up to rub his head against my leg.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “Now, we just need to get out of here.”
A long honk from Wilson, followed by the sound of a key turning in the front door, suggested we might have left it too late.
My heart pounded, blood rushing through my ears.
“Yoo-hoo,” a voice called from the front door. “Anybody home?”
Chapter Fifteen
I froze. If Mrs Eggsby had been nearby, she couldn’t have encased me in ice any better than my bloodstream managed. Footsteps trod inside, cautious, hesitating. If I didn’t get a move on, they’d grow in confidence and speed, tracing a path straight to the lounge.
At least hide behind a chair!
The thought broke my paralysis, and I tiptoed to the edge of the door, risking a quick peek along the corridor. The hallway was clear but from the bustle of movement at the front of the house, it wouldn’t be for long.
I could move toward the bedroom and the open window or run in the opposite direction to the back door.
I chose the surety of the window. If I encountered a double deadlock or another unknown impediment, the door would slow me down.
Barnaby wound himself around my legs and I picked him up, holding him securely as I tiptoed along the hallway, my vision pulsing in time with the beats of my heart. Two metres to go, one, a foot.
A shadow moved on the carpeting. Someone was near the connecting door.
I darted into the safety of the room, crossing the floor in the time it took to draw another breath. The gap in the window had grown smaller. I dropped Barnaby outside, then pushed at the sash to widen the opening.
Wood squeaked against wood, sending a shriek through the entire house.
“Is someone there?” the voice called out. No hesitation now. It was strong and commanding. Someone who knew they were in the right.
I threw my leg out the gap, not bothering to keep quiet. Speed was now my only friend. With one arm pressing against the outside and half my body through the gap, I heard a gasp from the doorway.
Beezley sprang into action, unleashing a fury of barks at the intruder as I struggled and fell out onto the ground. When I staggered to my feet, wind
ed, I saw him launch himself at a well-dressed man, striking him at mid-thigh before falling back, dazed.
“Beezley,” I shouted, spreading my arms wide for him to jump into. With one last snarl at the stranger, the dog sprinted and jumped, knocking me flat onto the grass lawn again.
We scrambled to our feet, me last to get there, and headed over the gate. Beezley took it in one leap, Barnaby already waiting on the other side. I jumped, got one leg over while the other tangled in the chain-link metal, landing my full weight solidly on the top, right in my crotch.
I groaned and fell to the side, wishing Glynda had the foresight to kill me the night before rather than leaving me free to experience the depth of agony spiking through my groin.
Tears sprang into my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. My chest seized. My lungs were too interested in what was happening down below to heave in a replacement breath.
Get up! Get up and run or you’ll be caught!
A nice thought. The wish was so far away from reality, I might as well have tried to fly. Without a broomstick. Or powers.
“Hey, you!”
Hey, yourself. I wasn’t in any condition for what was running towards me across the back lawn. Barnaby sniffed at my hair. Typical. Thanks, cat. That really helps.
“I’ve called the police.”
Of course, you have. What else should I expect on the day of pain?
Beezley snuffled near my face, giving me a tentative lick. Was that a sign of encouragement or did he have plans for my corpse, later?
A man stood near me, only visible in the shadow he cast over my face. He slowly walked in a circle, then squatted. His kneecaps popped like crackers breaking in two.
“What are you doing here?” he said in such a low voice half of it was stolen by the light breeze. He ran a thumb along his lower lip, his tongue following the same path a moment later. “You’re trespassing.”
I tried to move again, using every remaining bit of my strength. After crawling a few centimetres forward, I collapsed again, spent.
“What are we going to do with you?”