Dear Mrs. Larkin,
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that your husband, John Larkin, is having an affair. I’ll spare you the lurid details, but just know that your husband is frequently in the company of a woman with perfect hair and toned thighs.
Sincerely,
Anonymouse
“Oh, heavens,” Lorna said.
“Yes, that was my reaction.”
“But you have perfect hair!” Lorna cried. She was getting distracted again.
For all her talk of hair, though, alarm bells were going off in Lorna’s mind. It was the way that the writer signed the note. Only a day before, Muriel had been talking about how humorous it was that the note sent to the police station, accusing Maurice of murder, had been signed by Anonymouse. It seemed like too much of a coincidence to think that two different letter writers could make the same mistake.
Lorna did not want to go into detail about this with Elizabeth. Rather, she wanted to get the schoolmistress off of that dog.
“Well, I’m getting a little peckish…” she said, by way of hinting that they should eat dinner and leave Montebello in peace.
Lorna did eventually manage to pull Elizabeth away from the dog, and the next thing that she knew she was seated at Elizabeth’s Formica table eating a meal fit for Julia Child.
“I must say that I’m so glad that you came tonight,” Elizabeth said, raising her glass in a toast.
“Me too,” said Lorna. “It’s been a real pleasure.”
As they toasted and tucked into their pot roast, Lorna thought about Betty. She must be at home sulking, bemoaning the fate of her turban, now lodged deeply into the intestines of Sir Eats-A-Lot. Such a shame that she missed out, because there was so much that Lorna would have to catch her up on.
Luckily, though, Betty wouldn’t starve, for Elizabeth had thought ahead and prepared a takeaway meal expertly packed in a brown paper bag, and it even came with a plastic fork and napkins.
“It was so nice of you to think of Betty,” Lorna said gratefully, gesturing at the package.
“It was my pleasure,” Elizabeth replied through a mouthful of pot roast.
“Might I be honest with you?” Lorna asked.
“But of course, my dear.”
“I was so intimidated the first time I saw you. But in the comfort of your own home, you’re so warm and hospitable.”
“Oh yes, that makes a great deal of sense,” Elizabeth replied.
“And why is that?”
“If I take my pills during the day I become groggy, so I take them when I come home instead,” Elizabeth said with a cheery smile.
“Oh,” Lorna replied, nodding her head.
Elizabeth was referring to the happy pills. Of course.
Chapter 13
Lorna went home that night in a stupor. The pot roast lulled her into a deep slumber, and she slept like a log until the phone rang a few hours later.
“Lorna,” Muriel said over the phone.
“Muriel, it’s five in the morning,” Lorna grumbled. Her hair was askew and reaching up towards the heavens.
“Is it? I never know what time it is. I always come to the café early to bake the scones.”
“Naturally,” Lorna replied, half asleep. Off in the corner, Lord Nottingham was tossing and turning, his paws in the air. No doubt, he was having a bad dream.
“I was calling to let you know that there’ll be another village meeting tonight. It shall be held at the café,” Muriel said.
“Free sandwiches…” Lorna said in a daze.
“Without question,” Muriel replied.
“What is the purpose of the meeting?” Lorna asked.
“If I were to reveal that now, it would ruin the dignity of this phone call,” Muriel said.
“I understand,” Lorna replied, even though she didn’t, and hung up the phone.
Lorna figured that since she was already awake, she might as well make oatmeal in her cauldron. Since she still had the black jellybeans in her pocket, she threw them in with the oatmeal in hopes of making a spell yet to be discovered. Maybe the oatmeal would tell her something. Anything.
Sadly, what she came up with was black oatmeal that tasted of licorice. She ate it tentatively, thinking that at the very least, black licorice was good for heartburn.
Breakfast done, Lorna tended to the garden, straightened up the cottage, and bemoaned the fact that she had had very little time to turn the cottage into the idyllic retreat that she had planned. She was so busy with solving the murder and finding a replacement turban for Betty that the cottage remained in a state of disarray. Her design magazines were shredded to pieces, as Lord Nottingham continued to eat them when she was out of the house. Was her cooking so bad that the cat had resigned himself to the flavor of photographic journalism? It was a troubling thought.
The day passed rather uneventfully. Lorna went to the library and thankfully managed to avoid Rachel’s gaze, she went to the Super to procure some couscous, and she even strolled by Crabtree Antiques and saw a propitious sign that read Reopening Soon. She presumed that it must have something to do with the meeting they would have that night.
The villagers descended upon Muriel’s Café an hour before the meeting, if only to stare in through the window and make Muriel feel anxious. Once the door was finally opened, the scene continued in much the same way as it had on the day of the murder. The list of sandwiches was remarkably similar to what they had been on the other meeting, only “Asian Surprise” was no longer on the menu after Evie Ellis suggested that it be omitted. In its place, “Indian Magic” had been added, and of all people, Evie was the one that took the bait.
“It has cheese curds,” Evie said in wonder. Well, you know what happens next.
Lorna took a cheese and tomato sandwich and sat at a table over by the window. Betty sat next to her with her pea and prosciutto sandwich, and they both anticipated what was to come.
When Bill Bumblethorn entered the café, there was a real life macaw on his shoulder and a black patch over his eye. No one commented upon his pirate attire, but it was hard to ignore. Lorna was simply thankful that Bumblethorn did not actually speak like a pirate.
“I thank you all for coming,” he began.
And here begins the entertainment, Lorna thought to herself.
“As you know, Maurice Crabtree was arrested last week, and with much flourish and panache,” Bumblethorn said. “But unfortunately, the anonymous tip that we received was not sound, and Maurice has now been released from Tweed prison.”
The crowd whispered amongst themselves. Betty, meanwhile, explained to Lorna that Tweed prison was actually just a vacant room in the library. Rachel was the jailor.
“That means the murderer is still among us!” someone cried, and the room was instantly filled with panicked chatter.
“Calm down, now. Calm down,” Bumblethorn said, raising his hands in the air. The macaw hopped from his left shoulder to his right.
“What we have learned is that Maurice had an alibi on the day of the murder,” Bumblethorn went on.
“He was shopping for hemorrhoid cream,” Flo cried out, unprompted. Her eyeshadow was magenta that evening. “He couldn’t find it in the Super, and he was too embarrassed to ask anyone what aisle it was on, so he was in the shop from 11 a.m. till noon.”
The villagers nodded their heads in understanding.
“In the future,” Flo went on. “Never be ashamed to ask for directions to the hemorrhoid cream.”
It was then that Maurice Crabtree burst through the door.
“Bill Bumblethorn killed John Larkin!” he exclaimed, and the crowd gasped.
“What on earth?” Bumblethorn said. The macaw shifted yet again.
“I saw the booty that you have in your home. The loot,” Maurice went on.
Lorna was unsure, but it seemed like the words “booty” and “loot” were in regards to Bumblethorn looking like a pirate, whether consciously or no.
“W
hat booty and loot?” Bumblethorn asked indignantly.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t have a Rembrandt in your home!” Maurice said. All heads turned towards Bumblethorn.
Rembrandt! Lorna thought.
“Yes, upon being released from Tweed library, Bill became penitent and invited me over to his house for tea,” Maurice explained. “Upon taking tea, I saw the Rembrandt displayed in pride of place on his wall. I knew full well that it must have been acquired through the black market. I see these things all the time.”
“That’s not true!” Bumblethorn exclaimed. “It’s a fake, I swear!”
“If that painting is a fake,” Maurice went on, “then my name is not Maurice Crabtree, purveyor of antiques since 1946!”
The townsfolk gasped again, and Betty put her hands over her eyes.
“I am of the belief,” Maurice went on, “that the chief inspector acquired the painting after becoming aware of John’s involvement in black market trading. Might it not make sense that all the while, our own chief inspector was aware of John Larkin’s illegal activities, but was willing to turn a blind eye so long as he benefited from them?”
“Have some respect!” Betty called out.
“This is hogwash,” Bumblethorn spat.
The villagers got to their feet, unmoved by the police chief’s pleas. They were now convinced, and surrounded Bumblethorn on all sides.
“Stop this! You’re frightening my bird,” Bumblethorn wailed. “You’ve had your free sandwiches, what more could you want?”
“Come out with it, Bill,” Maurice persisted. “I surmise that John Larkin’s thievery finally got out of hand and that you, realizing that if he were arrested, you’d go down with him, decided to kill him instead!”
“But who in God’s name would arrest him?” Bumblethorn asked in dismay. The man had a point.
“Bumblethorn is guilty!” a villager cried.
“Throw him in the library!” another demanded.
“Indian Magic!” Evie Ellis yelled at the top of her lungs. Truly, it wasn’t clear why she did so, but Lorna guessed that the sandwich had something to do with it.
“Everyone calm down!” Muriel said, hushing the crowd.
Silence. The macaw flew off of Bumblethorn’s shoulder and perched itself on the model train above. Finally, Bumblethorn removed his eye patch and put down the sandwiches.
“Now, it seems like there is strong evidence against the chief inspector, and I’m sad to hear it,” Muriel said. “There is even a chance that he made up the letter from Anonymouse.”
“Nonsense, Anonymouse is real!” Bumblethorn cried.
“We all know that we responded too hastily to the notion of Maurice’s guilt, and so, when it comes to the fate of the chief inspector…”
The crowd waited with bated breath. It was as though Muriel herself had assumed the position of police chief.
“I say lock him up!” she cried.
What ensued was a scene similar to the end of Beauty and the Beast, when the townsfolk storm the Beast’s castle with pitchforks and scythes. Bill Bumblethorn was led feverishly to the library, where Rachel stood out front with a large collection of keys on her belt. It was a terrifying sight.
Lorna watched the whole torrid escapade from the café window.
“This has all gotten out of hand,” she said to Betty.
“You can say that again,” Betty replied.
“This has all gotten out of hand,” Lorna repeated.
“I suppose I asked for that.”
“I’m not convinced,” Lorna said, taking out her notes. “Sure, Bumblethorn has the stolen Rembrandt that Jackie mentioned. But does that mean that he murdered John Larkin?”
“The villagers are stirred up. Perhaps they just crave the comfort of knowing that someone has been brought to justice,” Betty reasoned.
“That makes great sense, Betty,” Lorna said. “But I fear that they have made the same mistake yet again.”
“So what are we to do next?”
“Get drunk?”
“A fine idea!” Betty replied.
“Oh, Betty, I was joking. It seems like we’re drinking every day! Let’s go for a walk instead.”
“Yes, that’s a far better suggestion,” Betty replied.
The two ladies went for a walk in the park, where talk soon turned to turbans. Betty went on and on about how she wanted her new turban to look and feel.
“White with golden flecks would be agreeable, and a small gemstone the color of golden plum right about here,” Betty said, pointing to the left side of her head. “The interior should be lined with fleece, but this lining should be removable during the warmer months. And it should smell of peaches.”
“Betty, this is remarkably specific. It’s going to be hard to find,” Lorna hedged, scrambling to note down her friend’s stipulations.
“It shan’t be too difficult,” Betty carried on. “Also, it must be reversible, so that when the fleece lining is removed, the turban can be turned inside out and go from sparkling white to incandescent green.”
“Of course,” Lorna said. As it turned out, finding Betty a turban was going to be more difficult than finding the murderer of John Larkin.
“Oh, and I want it to play music when you press on the gemstone,” Betty went on.
“What tune would that be?” Lorna asked wearily.
“Clair de lune.”
“Ah yes, I suppose that would be the natural choice,” Lorna replied. She abruptly closed her pad of paper and stowed it away in her pocket. “Enough discussion of your turban, Betty.”
“All right. Describe the evening to me,” Betty said.
“Oh, the park just looks beautiful. The weeping willows are hanging down into the lake. The water looks brown and inviting.”
“Really, is it brown?” Betty asked.
“Yes, I wouldn’t go in there.”
“Noted,” Betty replied.
“Oh! And there are cherry blossoms!” Lorna exclaimed. “How remarkable. I thought that they were only in Japan.”
“Oh, don’t be daft. Cherry blossoms can grow anywhere. They’re like chili,” Betty replied.
It was as though Lorna’s vision of the world was changing. Gone were the days where she was stuck in Florida, trapped in a world where foreigners did not eat chili. No, everything was opening up for her. She was well on her way to forging a new path in her new life. Now, if she could only solve this pesky murder, she could finally get around to decorating her house.
“You know, Tweed-upon-Slumber is a truly beautiful place,” Lorna said, drinking it all in. “It’s despicable that the crime scene tape is still there,” Lorna said, looking over at the gruesome outline of John’s body.
“It’s still there?” Betty asked, dismayed.
“Yes, indeed. I dare say it changes the ambience a little.”
“I can’t imagine that Chief Bumblethorn is the one who killed John Larkin,” Betty said then. “Certainly, if one isn’t able to arrest another human being, they certainly can’t kill one.”
“You make good sense, Betty. Did you ever stop to wonder why Muriel wants folks arrested with such haste? She’s always the one holding up the pitchfork,” Lorna said. “I actually think that she hands out pitchforks and scythes at the café. How else did those things come out of nowhere today?”
“She acts with enthusiasm and haste, that much is true. But are you implying that Muriel might be guilty in some way?” Betty asked. “I can’t imagine her killing anyone.”
“You’ve never seen her make a milkshake,” Lorna said grimly.
“Well, whoever the murderer is, I hate to think that Bumblethorn is now in the library, alone and afraid and falsely accused.”
“Unable to make a sound. Denied the comfort of a cup of tea,” Lorna guessed, speaking from experience.
The sun had finally set and the lanterns were lit along the pathways of the park, their reflections twinkling in the lake. It all looked so wonderful.
<
br /> “There is a full moon tonight,” Lorna said, looking up to the sky.
“How lovely,” Betty replied.
That gives me an idea! Lorna thought to herself. Yes, the moment was ripe and she needed to seize it.
“Betty, I’m afraid I have to go home at once,” Lorna said with some urgency.
“Surely it’s not still the vegetarian chili?” Betty said.
“No, it’s something else entirely,” Lorna replied.
Betty stopped to consider it, and then it all became clear.
“I have a feeling that I know what this is in regards to, and I wholeheartedly approve,” the older woman said.
Once Lorna was back to her cottage, she began by setting the scene. Yes, she had been avoiding it for so long. She had tried to avoid using her powers to solve the murder. She had hoped to rely on her normal, everyday, garden variety intelligence in order to do so, but she had gotten nowhere.
Since it was a full moon, it was far more likely that a spell could be successful, but there were other things that needed to be in order before she could get to work. For one thing, the broom needed to be in the westerly corner. She moved the broom from the door to the corner, and the broom just kept protesting and flying back to the door, which seriously annoyed Lorna.
“Stay!” she finally barked at the broom, and it relented.
Next, the incantation book needed to rest on a cookbook stand. Once it was in place in the kitchen, Lorna undertook the seasoning of the cauldron. To do this, she needed to spray it with butter-flavored cooking spray. Why it needed to be that flavor, Lorna did not know.
Then, Lorna needed to flip the mattress on her bed. Yes, that did seem strange, but it was all part of the protocol. After that was done, Lorna was glad for it, because the other side of the mattress was much cleaner and more firm.
Lastly, Lorna needed to wear a skort. Yes, when she learned of this one she was really taken aback, but it was necessary. She had to wonder, when male witches tried to cast a spell, did they have to wear a skort as well? Ever so odd.
A New Witch In Town Page 11