Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  “I’d like you to organise the flowers. Twelve dozen wild-grown red roses, and similar in black, complete with thorns, to decorate a ceremonial arch, fixed to a raised dais in the garden. I assume you have workmen who can create such a thing.” His tone was clipped and business-like now, the sardonic drawl, previously evident, had disappeared.

  “A buffet, heavy on the raw meat, perhaps some exotic subtleties. My understanding is you have a French chef in situ. He can create a good spread for our mortal guests.” Melchior sneered.

  I wrote everything down as he looked on.

  “I’m sure you can attend to the finer details. Wedding stuff. Make it look good.” He waved his hands, dismissing me.

  “When will you arrive?” I asked.

  “Overnight on the 28th. You’ll need to arrange for our rooms to be completely blacked out.” I made a note of that. This would keep Zephaniah busy. We didn’t really have a great deal of time. We needed to get on with it.

  “What is the size of your party?” I asked.

  Melchior suppressed a yawn. “Oh the dull mundanity of all this organisation,” he said. “Let’s say twenty. Can your grim rural hovel cope do you think?”

  Just about. At maximum capacity the inn could hold forty, but that meant shared bedrooms.

  “You haven’t mentioned the bride,” I said, ignoring his jibe.

  “Should I?” he asked in surprise. “How dull. Anyone would think this was all about her.”

  This was probably the single most shocking thing he’d come out with so far. I looked up from my clipboard and regarded him in consternation. “I suppose most weddings generally are very bride-oriented.”

  “Boring, boring, boring!”

  I glared at him. “What’s her name? Can I start with that?”

  “Ekaterina Lukova.”

  “Is she bringing family and guests too?”

  “Oh this is tedious,” Melchior cried.

  I took a deep breath. “Did you include her party in your numbers?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Great,” I said and picked up my bag to stuff the clipboard and pen away.

  Melchior rolled around on the chaise longue so that he was on his front. He watched me, his eyes narrow. “One thing,” he said.

  “Yes?” I paused.

  “We will supply a headdress, a very important piece of ceremonial ware. When it is delivered you must take very good care of it.”

  “No problem. I’ll make sure of that myself.”

  “We’ll also supply her dress, and one of my guests will be her bridesmaid and attend to hair and make-up etc. We will not require the services of anyone else.”

  “Very well.” I stood and zipped my bag, then pulled my jacket on. I couldn’t wait to get out in the fresh air. When I turned back to him to bid goodbye and shake his hand he was standing mere inches away from me, staring down into my face. I hadn’t heard or seen him approach. He’d moved like lightning, without so much as disturbing the air.

  I gasped, and he leaned down even closer, his face centimetres from mine. I wriggled away, my calf muscles rubbing against the seat behind me, trapping me from escape.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, for a witch, Alfhild.” He plucked a lock of my long curly hair, twirling it between his fingers. “Where are you staying tonight? Perhaps I can pay you a visit? We could share dinner.” He drew a finger down the side of my neck, an intimate gesture I simply couldn’t stand for.

  I yanked my head sideways, freeing my hair, and with a supreme effort of will side-stepped. He lay a hand on my shoulder and laughed into my face. I shrank from his breath and the stench of a thousand years of dismal culinary choices.

  “Scintillam!” I said clearly. Yellow sparks erupted from my shoulders like sparklers at a child’s party and just as quickly disappeared. He jerked his hand away in pain.

  He howled and sucked on his fingers. “What was that?”

  “That was a little lesson, Melchior Laurent. A short sharp shock. And believe me, there will be more where that came from. Allow us at Whittle Inn the pleasure of hosting your wedding, by all means, but if you’re coming down to Whittlecombe, you will treat me, and my staff and all of the guests at the inn with the utmost respect. What is it the Christian peoples say? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Let this be your warning. The inn, my staff, and the villagers of Whittlecombe are entirely off limits to you and any of your kind. No hunting. No maiming. No killing. Is that clear?”

  Melchior dropped his hands to his side and beamed at me.

  “Oh you are wonderful!” He grinned. “A femme de feu, as my father would say. I’m so looking forward to spending more time with you.”

  “I’ll see you on the twenty-eighth,” I responded sharply, and he threw his head back, laughing like a drain.

  * * *

  Marc saw me out. We stood together by the elevator, watching as the little gold arrow slowly ran in a semi-circle to indicate each floor it passed as it climbed towards us.

  “Tough crowd, huh?” he asked, observing my straight back and uninviting expression no doubt.

  “You could say that.” I exhaled and dropped my shoulders.

  “I’m sure you’ll do a sterling job.”

  “I hope so. That’s my intention at any rate.” I relaxed a little more. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Regarding the need for blood…” I paused wondering if this was a delicate conversation. “I want to make sure everyone at the inn is safe, you know, for the duration.”

  “Oh yes, don’t worry about that. We’re all mod-cons these days. The Laurents have a portable blood bank.”

  “A blood bank?” I twisted my face up. “That’s grim. No offence.”

  “None taken. It’s not ideal, but it’s a useful temporary solution. They’ll set it up outside, and it can be used with complete discretion.”

  I shook my head. You learn something new every day. “I’m not surprised the other hotel passed up the opportunity to host the Laurent nuptials.”

  “Other hotel?” Marc asked, frowning. “There was no other hotel. I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be Whittle Inn all along.”

  Wherever you may wander, there is no place like home.

  As I stumbled into Whittle Inn shortly before midnight, the stresses and strains of the day oozed out of my body. The faint scent of freshly baked bread, and for some strange reason, oranges, permeated throughout the downstairs of the inn. Someone had thoughtfully left a light on in the bar, so I dumped my belongings in the porch and made my way through, running a weary hand over my face. Travelling first class is unbeatable, but you don’t actually get anywhere any faster than anyone travelling in a lower class. There’s just slightly more leg room and people pretend to be nice to you. I’d spent the best part of twelve hours on the road and I was exhausted.

  I considered pouring myself a night-cap—the display of drinks behind the bar looked appetising—but the faint sound of voices from beyond the frosted glass door stopped me in my tracks. Thoughts of Melchior had followed me all the way home, and while I couldn’t imagine he would trail me and harm me tonight, that hadn’t stopped me worrying.

  I opened the door and crept through the back hallway. The Nook and the Snug were closed up and dark, the voices coming from the kitchen. I paused at the foot of the stairs. Whomever was conversing sounded cheerful enough. I poked my head around the door.

  Florence and Charity.

  “Hey!” I said, surprised to see them there together.

  “Good evening, Miss Alf,” Florence smiled. “Welcome home.”

  “It is so good to be back.” I groaned and plopped myself down on a kitchen bench opposite Charity.

  “I thought you’d only been gone today?” Charity looked puzzled.

  “Let me tell you, it has been the longest day of my life.” I kicked my boots off under the table and wiggled my toes. Somewhere my mother was spinning in her grave.


  “Florence said you had a meeting in London.”

  “Mm,” I said, glancing around to see if Florence was planning on dishing up some supper. As usual, she didn’t let me down. I watched her cut up a gala pie and lay a slice on a plate. The kettle boiled away on the stove. Tea wouldn’t be long. “I met with a vampire named Melchior Laurent. He’s the groom of the wedding you talked me into hosting.”

  “I talked you into?” Charity repeated with a smile.

  “You did. I was ready to say no,” I declared, and then winked at her.

  Charity sat up straight and gaped at me. “Wait. Wait. What? You said… vampire.”

  “Yes.” I shook my head, only now realising how big a mistake I’d made. “That was a small detail I hadn’t really paid attention to, until Grandmama pointed it out. So I went to meet the younger Mr Laurent today, and he turned out to be my worst nightmare.”

  Charity shook her head. “I don’t know whether to take you seriously.”

  I indicated Florence, smouldering away by the stove as she poured water into the pot. “You’re sitting at a kitchen table with a witch, being served tea by a woman who’s been dead for over a century, but is still burning, and you’re not sure whether I’m telling the truth?”

  “You have a point,” Charity said, and we laughed together. Florence observed us with a wry shake of her head.

  “Why are you here at this time, anyway?”

  “I’ve been working the late shift at The Hay Loft. It wasn’t a great few hours. I’ll spare you the details. Anyway, I quit. With immediate effect. I came up here to let you know. And to say, that if you’ll have me, I can start here any time you like.”

  “Really?” I asked, squeaking with excitement. “That’s great news.”

  “Oh good!” Charity clapped her hands. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  I took a mouthful of pie and chewed hard. “You know, there’s a room on the top floor you’re welcome to have. I know you and your Mum don’t live that far away, but if you wanted your own space it would be perfect. I set it aside for the new chef, but seeing as Monsieur Emietter is a spirit, he doesn’t need a bedroom. Funny how things work out.”

  “That does sound perfect.” Charity nodded.

  “If the weather turns bad this winter you’ll be glad of it.”

  “Nah, it never snows in Devon,” Charity said with total conviction. “Something to do with the Gulf stream.”

  “Oh well, that’s good,” I replied. “I don’t like snow anyway.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon Charity arrived at the inn carrying some of her belongings in two huge holdalls. I hardly recognised her.

  She had visited the hairdresser and hadn’t held back.

  The long hair had gone, replaced by a much shorter style in a bright flamingo pink.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “I know,” Charity dropped her bags and spun around, treating me to a 360-degree view of her new style. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it!” I pointed to my own red head. “I think we may clash though.”

  Charity smirked, “It will be fine if we’re never seen in public together.”

  I showed her to her room, and then took her up into the attic and introduced her to the ghosts who resided there, explaining to them that Charity was my manager and second-in-command. I shot Gwyn a look when I said this, but she didn’t seem unduly perturbed, and although she kept darting glances at Charity’s new hairdo every minute or so, she seemed to have taken a liking to her quicker than I had hoped for.

  For her part Charity was entranced both by the ghosts, and by the piles of junk in the attic. She poked around among chests and pulled the dust sheets off the large portraits and pieces of furniture stored under the eaves, clucking and tutting whenever she found something of note.

  I finally managed to drag her away and called a meeting in the bar to talk everyone through our plans for the wedding and the opening of the inn. Monsieur Emietter was in attendance with Gwyn translating for me, along with Zephaniah, Luppitt Smeatharpe and the leader of the Devonshire Fellows, Robert Wait, and Florence of course.

  “Whittle Inn is going to be hosting what is ostensibly the vampire wedding of the century,” I announced.” I have my doubts about this but I’m going to keep them to myself for now. What I need is for us to pull together and make this an event that people will talk about for years to come. We need to put Whittle Inn back on the map.”

  I glanced over at Charity who was taking notes. “I didn’t get masses of detail from Melchior Laurent yesterday, but he has a party of around twenty. For the wedding itself, it will take place at midnight on Halloween, and he wants a raised dais area with a rose arbour. Oh, and that needs to be outside.”

  “He wants the wedding outside? At night? That late in October? What’s the forecast?” Charity asked.

  “That’s your first job.” I smiled.

  Charity whistled and made a note.

  “Can you also take charge of the arbour?” I asked. “Mr Laurent Senior sent me a list of suppliers for flowers. They’ve asked for red and black roses.”

  “Well of course they have. Not exactly thinking out of the box, these vampires are they?” Charity said, and I do believe my great grandmother snorted in amusement.

  I continued. “Zephaniah? Not all of these guests will be vampires by the sound of it, but we need to make sure the bedrooms that the vampires do have access to, are all fitted with blackout blinds.” I reiterated this. “That’s vitally important. The slightest hint of daylight and that will be the end of the bride and groom and family.” Zephaniah doffed an imaginary hat.

  “Oh and can you take charge of the dais and arbour thingie please? Ned can help you. And my father if he’s around.” I hadn’t seen Erik for a few weeks, so I assumed he was off somewhere doing his Circle of Querkus duty.

  “Grandmama?” I turned to Gwyn and Monsieur Emietter. The vampires don’t necessarily need food, but they will have non-vampire guests, and we will have people up from the village, so I want a decent spread.” I checked my notes. “And Melchior Laurent asked for raw meat.”

  I stuck my tongue out in a disgusted motion and Gwyn eyed me with disdain. “Really, Alfhild. The French love rare meat. Not all food has to be charred in a bonfire, you know.”

  “What about a cake?” asked Florence.

  I ran a quick eye down my notes. “They never mentioned a cake to me.”

  “Every wedding has a cake,” said Charity. She had a fair point.

  “Ooh, Miss Alf. Please let me make the cake, if Monsieur Emietter doesn’t mind of course.” Florence dipped a curtsey at the chef and he stared at her, not comprehending what she was saying. I had to organise some English lessons for the man, or the rest of us would have to learn French. One of the two.

  “If Monsieur Emietter doesn’t mind, you can make the cake, Florence.” I nodded in agreement and Florence clasped her hands together and squealed in delight.

  “Better make it a red and black one,” Charity muttered, her gaze focused on her list.

  “That’s probably not a bad idea,” I said. “Let’s pander to the stereotype. Multi-tiered. Gothic looking.”

  “A spider web or two,” Charity continued. “It is Halloween after all.”

  Florence glanced uncertainly between me and Charity. “Charity is joking,” I said. Although I wasn’t entirely sure she was. “Go with whatever you think best.”

  “I’ll make the most wonderful cake any bride has ever seen.” Florence’s eyes shone.

  The phone behind the bar rang, and Charity, who was closest, picked it up.

  “Whittle Inn, good afternoon. Charity speaking, how may I help you?” she sang, and I hid a smile.

  “Hello. Yes? I’m the new manager. Yes. Yes, she is. Okay. One second.” She held the phone out to me. “DS Gilchrist. He says it’s important.”

  The following morning, just after eight, I was standing outside Whittle Allotments with a huge bunch
of keys, waiting for George to arrive. It was a cool morning, with the promise of more sunshine, and a fine lingering mist was already beginning to burn off on the hills surrounding Whittlecombe. I absently watched as tendrils of steamy dew evaporated into the warm air, until George drew up in his battered silver Volvo and joined me outside the big iron gates.

  Whittle Allotments had been in existence since the First World War when many villagers were struggling on their rations. Every family who inhabited a house belonging to the Whittle Estate had been ‘allotted’ a piece of ground on which to grow vegetables to help sustain them through shortages. Over the years they had continued to prove popular, and during the Great Depression of the 1930s, the Second World War, and the period of austerity that followed, the allotments had proved their value time and time again. Nowadays, not every cottage made use of their allotments, because in the early twenty-first century, the ready availability of food meant busy families had plenty of alternatives. I could see that some of the allotments lay unkempt and uncared for, and I made a mental note to check on ways to hire the land out to those who wanted it locally, or perhaps increase plot sizes for those who worked their patches.

  “Morning!” I greeted George. He darted a quick glance all around to check for anyone watching us, then gave me a quick hug.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. But you look tired.”

  “Oh I’m juggling several cases at once. I didn’t get to bed till gone two this morning.”

  “I’ll treat you to coffee afterwards if you like. Keep you going throughout today.” I jangled the keys. “What are you expecting to find here anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” George said as we walked the few steps to the entrance. “Derek Pearce’s neighbours said he spent most days down here, from dawn till dusk apparently. Until a few weeks ago at any rate, when he stopped going out altogether, apart from a few walks with the dog. I spoke to Stan and Rhona in the General Stores, and they couldn’t recall seeing him either.”